Down Came the Rain
by PippinStrange
Summary: Peter Parker is abducted and brutally tortured for information on the Avengers by a rogue NYPD cop. Told through past, present, and future, Peter deals with the psychological aftermath of the event and sets out to find his own kind of justice. Fills in some of the gaps between Homecoming and Infinity War. Mild spoilers for Spider-Man Homecoming. Violence/whump, you've been warned!
1. Five Minutes

Mild spoilers for Homecoming. Technically, supposed to over the next few days after the film ends. Canon relationships. Trigger warnings: blood, injury, mild whump, grief of losing a loved one, a possible suicide in later chapters (not an avenger).

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PRESENT - TUESDAY NIGHT

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It was hard to concentrate in the darkness I was submerged in, a dizzying fog pressing in on all sides. So this is what forced unconsciousness felt like? Enough blows to the head and _this_ happens; all claustrophobic tendencies wrapped in a haunted sort of nap.

A unwanted stasis of a fight gone wrong.

Look, I get it. I'm out of it. I might be unconscious. I don't... I don't know that this makes any sense. _I_ don't make sense.

I want to be on the good side and have something worth writing home about, should I live long enough to find a pen. When things suddenly go crazy and I remember how much I want to _survive,_ and then I'm suddenly choking on my own vomit?

It's... confusing.

It's not fair.

I'm only half-aware of what's going on around me, even if only aware enough to make-believe it's a hundred years earlier in a war before intelligent alien life and corrupted super villains. _Those_ were the days.

I was bleeding out at this point, I think, and wavering between dead and alive. I didn't see it coming and there wasn't any reason to.

Well, now I know. Sometimes the bad guys unite too. And sometimes I'm the common goal if I've pissed enough people off. And I suppose I did. Because I am Spider-Man... this may be the new default.

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YESTERDAY - MONDAY AFTERNOON

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I heard Aunt May curse loudly before I saw her. How is it that she's the only person who can sneak up on me? People shouldn't be able to; I'm _Spider-Man._ I have extra sensory talents. And she's...

like my mom. And mom's have a seventh, eighth, and ninth sense when it comes to their kids screwing up. And spider-sense or not, I knew that I screwed up this time. Big time.

"May," I turned around and held out my hands defensively, "This is... not what it looks like!"

"THEN WHAT IT IS?" she snarled. "What is it? And I swear to God - if you lie to me - if you are _contemplating_ a lie right now - don't. I would rather hear _nothing_ than a lie. Nothing." she held up a finger when I opened my mouth. "Don't, even, _think_ about it."

I shut my mouth. The excuses just wouldn't fly. Costumes. Cosplay. Parties. Anything other than the truth.

"You," she pointed at me, her face so dark with confusion and wood-splitting anger that it was terrifying to behold. "You change into something _normal._ And be out here in five minutes."

I opened my mouth and shut it again. "A-aunt May?" I asked in a small voice. "It... it will take me less than... um... five minutes to change... um, if you want me sooner."

Aunt May turned away from me and stepped into the hallway. "No," she answered, her tone so dismal that it made me wish the earth would just swallow me whole.

"The five minutes are _not_ for you. They're for me."

Then she slammed the door with such a hulk-like strength that a framed posted fell off the wall and fell behind the dresser with a crash.

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Hey guys,

this little story came to mind while I was 'sleep-writing'. This is a weird thing I do where I fall asleep while I am writing and wake up to find that not everything is gibberish, sometimes you come up with delightful little phrases like 'a haunted sort of nap' and you've blissfully written a monologue by someone who is clearly over-thinking being unconscious.

Please join me for some adventure in Queens.

Love,

Pip


	2. Good Spider Hunting

Please review and let me know what you think :) Also I am open to suggestions if there's things or characters you would like me to include.

\- Pip

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PRESENT

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This is the worst feeling of all. You can hear your friend's voices trying to rouse you, afraid of losing you, bewildered at the lack of response, screaming your name from a long, gray expanse because they think you're dead and their hands are shaking too hard to find a pulse.

An out of body experience, then, from their perspective. I can guess what they're probably thinking right now, and I see it from the bird's eye view, even if they can't think past the next two seconds. The grief places things in too close of a proximity. Its all about detail instead of the big picture.

I am bringing a copious amount of fresh blood on the outside instead of the inside where it's supposed to be, freshly pouring from too many wounds until my clothes are soaked crimson and slimy with no discernible place to try and staunch the flow. But that doesn't mean they don't try, wadding up shirts and blankets and trying to keep me from bleeding out. It doesn't mean they're not successful, either.

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YESTERDAY

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I changed into a gray t-shirt and jeans and watched the clock. At the five minute mark exactly, I walked into the living room. May was sitting like a statue in the chair, fingers folded and pressed in her lap, glasses shoved so far into the bridge of her nose she'd likely have red bruising. She was staring at the floor.

"SIT," she said darkly. "On the couch."

I sat obediently, mirroring her movements. Hands folded, though more loosely, hanging over my knees.

"Speak," she said shortly, looking at me with narrowed eyes. "Now."

"I..." my voice cracked. _Shit._ I wasn't going to get _sad_ over this. I am a teenager. I am supposed to be defensive, angry, slam a door or two... stick up to her. Tell her I am no one's kid. I am Spider-Man. And I'll do whatever I deem necessary.

"I am so, so sorry I didn't tell you," I said, my voice giving out unashamedly. Yup. Emotional and sad. I was sad that I hurt her. Sorry that I made the _one_ person who has always had my back feel like she couldn't trust me. I wanted it more than anything - her trust. Hurting someone with a punch in the eye is different than hurting a bond you have with someone.

"I am sorry, Aunt May," I repeated earnestly, clenching my hands together. I wasn't crying, my eyes were watering. "It was - dishonest. I was wrong. I shouldn't have kept this a secret. I am so, so sorry."

"The internship," Aunt May said brusquely. "That was a lie, wasn't it? There was no internship."

"Yes, technically," I answered. "But technically, no. The internship _is_ being... Spider-Man. A member of the Avengers. But... I didn't explain that the internship didn't involve robotics. Or chemistry. Or spreadsheets. Getting Stark Industry managers their coffee. Or anything that you probably thought an internship was."

There was a silence. Thick and heavy.

"I did not tell you to stop talking," Aunt May snapped.

"Oh, right, um," I sniffed loudly and wiped my eyes on the back of my hand. I looked up at her. She contemplated me with the look of mistrust that I could never forgive myself for. Love, and worry, and fear... mostly fear. Fear of me, I wonder? Or fear of losing me to something she doesn't understand?

"Do you want me to start at the beginning?" I asked meekly.

"Yes," she said simply. "Will you be telling me the truth?"

"Yes, Aunt May."

"All of it?" she added. I do not know if I imagined it, but I swear her eyes flicked over to the small framed portrait on the end table of her and Uncle Ben on their wedding day.

"You don't want to know all of it," I whispered brokenly, looking down and lacing my fingers behind my head.

The couch shifted as Aunt May lowered herself beside me, hesitantly placing her hand on my back. "Try me," she said. "Seriously. It's now or never. And I'm not going anywhere."

I shifted away from her. She wouldn't want to be this close to me if she knew that Uncle Ben's death was my fault...

She retracted her hand, hurt again.

"We went on a school trip," I began. "To... a science exhibit. And there was this... _display_ about radioactive effects on insects... of all things..."

I began the word vomit of confessing my sins to the church of May.

When I got to the part of stepping aside to let the criminal run by me... the criminal that ultimately shot and killed Uncle Ben...

I felt her body language change, sitting away from me, her muscles tensing as if getting ready to bolt - as if she knew what was coming.

"When I got home that night, the police were already here with you," I whispered, unable to hold tears back any longer. "And they t-t-told us..."

"It was the man who escaped, wasn't it?" she whispered.

"The man I _let go,"_ I corrected.

For a moment it seemed as if she couldn't catch her breath. She stood up abruptly from the couch and paced to the window, taking a moment to collect herself. Then she walked back very slowly, touched my face, and raised my chin to that I was forced to make eye contact.

Her face was blotchy with contained grief. "It wasn't your fault," she said quietly.

"Yes - yes - it was, yes _it was_ ," I sobbed. I pulled my face out of her hand and looked down again in overwhelmed shame. "It was my fault... It was my fault." It was almost a full blown panic attack now, my voice shifting to a rarely accessed higher-octave. "I'm so sorry. _I'm so sorry."_

She walked to the window again, her shoulders shaking. She waited until I had cried myself out. She made no move to try and make me stop, or even to comfort me. Which was preferable. I didn't want her _comfort._ I wanted her to tell me she agreed. Anything to make me feel justified.

I coughed. "I'm sorry," I whispered again. "If I could go back... if there was a _way_ to go back and change what happened... even if it meant I died in his place... I'd do it. Over and over again."

"It wasn't your fault," she repeated, in a monotone.

"Yes it was."

"Peter Parker," she said again. "It wasn't your fault."

Somewhere out of my grief, an inappropriate hint of laughter bubbled up. "The... the bit from G-g-goodwill Hunting... isn't... going to work... on me."

I could feel her smirk slightly, then shook her head. "Would you believe anything else?" she asked. "Even if I tried to convince you otherwise; took you to counseling, signed you up with a shrink... did everything in my power to make you believe it wasn't your fault... would it work?"

I shook my head. _No._

"Do you _want_ me to blame you?"

"If you can acknowledge my responsibility," I took a shuddering breath. "Maybe I can learn live with it."

"Okay," she said simply. "If that's what you need." She returned to my side. "Then I guess you need to understand that I forgive you," she said. "And I don't blame you."

 _She doesn't blame me,_ I thought. _How could she not blame me?_

"I miss him," she said. "Every day. I know you do too. I _know_ you'll carry this with you and there's nothing I can do to change it. But.. I don't blame you. I _don't. I won't._ Any doubt I'd ever have... if you could have prevented what happened... I refuse to let it destroy what I have left. And that's you. You're all I have left. And I love you to death." She sat beside me again and wrapped her arms around my head and we cried. Cried it all out.

I felt every ounce of grief again, and yet relief. Weight gone from my chest that I didn't realize was holding me down so fully. The feeling of _I don't deserve her forgiveness._

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Oh man, I have so many feels about the Parker family. I always have. Spider-Man has always been my life-long favorite. Please review!


	3. Carry On My Spider Son

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PRESENT

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 _I don't know what's happening to me._ There is too much light headedness, too much of the icy-blue fate; my head feels like a balloon filled with only the densest, most cleverly disguised poison air. Pungent with wild things. The kind you shouldn't, but have to, breathe in. Soft and falling around my shoulders is a cloud I can't penetrate. The air is too thick. I am getting carted away in it and the colors don't match.

That's when I feel my chest breaking under a pair of hands and something; an organ, maybe, my heart - jumpstarts. I imagine two hearts; one an emoticon shape, bright pink and cartoon. The other the real deal; a pumping mass of tissue the color of old blood and roadkill drying in the sun. One of these is not like the other and I get the distinct feeling it may not have been working a second ago. Maybe I wasn't unconscious like I thought.

Maybe I was dead?

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YESTERDAY

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I was hanging from the ceiling with my feet. May's sprawled across the couch with her second glass of wine. "And then what?" she asked tiredly.

"Well, then, Tony told me I was done, and the fight ended - for the most part. I mean, what I was meant to do, anyway. I was just there to put another super-strong person on his side, not enforce any laws or arrest anyone. No one was really trying to hurt anyone, just _stop_ them, to convince them to turn the metal-armed guy in for killing the King of Wakanda. Of course they didn't actually tell me that until _later._ Super annoying. But they were friends, you know? They saved New York when the aliens invaded. As a team."

"Would you consider them _friends?"_ she asked bitterly. "Someone who asks you to help defend the universe until you have a disagreement? And then they turn on you?"

"No, Aunt May," lowering myself from the ceiling and sitting on the floor beside the couch. "It's not like that. Really."

"Being with this team is going to get you killed," she whispered, taking a generous gulp of the last bit of wine. She looked down at her glass as if it personally insulted her.

"Do you want another one?" I asked carefully.

"Forget it," she snapped, setting it down a little too hard on the end table. "What happened after Germany? Were you involved in that shit with the Stark plane that went down on the beach?"

"I might have been the reason it went down."

"Jesus _Christ."_

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Thanks for the follows, you guys! More to come!


	4. Screwdrivers

Hello Reviewers... all two of you :) Thanks for your positive messages. More to come. To the lurkers: Send me your thoughts! I don't bite... much. Ehehe

Love,

Pip

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PRESENT

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 _So this is what it's like to be dead._ It's not at all what I thought. Still self aware but paralyzed to do anything about it. Capable of thinking but not speaking. Seeing shadows that belong to people trying to save me but, I think, failing at this point. Sometimes hearing voices; sometimes seeing ghosts.

"Hang on, kid. Hang on. We've got you. You're going to be okay. You just hang on."

Telling someone like Spider-Man to hang on seems a little redundant, right? I literally hang better than most. With superior strength. And webs.

"We're right here."

 _I'd like to respond and say thank-you, but I just can't right now._

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YESTERDAY

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When I've finally caught up to the present, including turning down a more permanent position with the Avengers until I could graduate, my hair was standing straight up off my head from all the times Aunt May distractedly ran her hand through it.

"I'm proud of you for turning it down," she said sleepily. "As for the rest..."

"I know..."

"You could have _died._ A hundred times."

"I know - but - not easily. Not really."

"Peter, I can't do this alone."

"I know."

"Don't die out there," she said. "Please."

"I promise," I said. Silence fell. "So you're going to let me keep this up?"

"It appears I cannot 'let' or 'not let' you do anything," she responded rather bitterly. "Because if I 'not-let' you, you sneak out and do it anyway and then lie about it."

I wasn't going to argue that. "Aunt May," I declared, "It was absolutely my intention to protect you from the truth. Not because I was ashamed of being Spider-Man but because I don't want bad guys out there to figure out who matters most to me. If someone like Toomes had escaped; he would have come after you. He didn't necessarily know who you were but he could've just asked Liz. He told me as much. He said he'd kill everyone I loved."

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TUESDAY AFTERNOON

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For a strange moment, I was awake again. I don't really know how. I knew at this point things weren't looking very good for me. I was merely walking home from school, then there was a flash-bang, like a grenade. A blood spray on a brick wall that seemed to come from _me._

And then a police officer. I knew help was coming; and then, it suddenly wasn't.

Suddenly I was more scared than I had ever been in my life.

"I've never been the type of guy to hurt people," he said, "But then again, I am really not opposed to sticking a bug with a pin to the wall."

"I'm not scared of you," I lied.

He picked up a screwdriver. "We'll see."

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YESTERDAY

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Aunt May was silent.

"I am not going to lose you too," I said. "But I can't give up being Spider-Man, either. I am him. It's not just an outfit. It's the powers I have now; and who I am. Who I want to be."

Aunt May took a deep, troubled breath.

"Who the hell would I be to tell their kid _not_ to be a hero?" she said, more to herself than me.

She got up from the couch, and felt the affects of the wine. She stumbled towards the hall.

"I am... going to bed," she said abruptly. "I am going to go to my room and make a screwdriver and get drunk and let myself be angry and sad for awhile. And YOU... you will stay _in_ this apartment. You understand? If you sneak out tonight the great Thor almighty could not protect you from me. Got it?"

"Yes, Aunt May."

"You promise?"

"I _promise."_

"Promises are good!" she exclaims loudly... tipsier than she believes she is. "They're so VERY honorable! But," she glanced at me. "You could be lying. I don't know. It'll be awhile before I can _know._ I used to think I _did_ know."

"I am not lying... I swear. Not now. Since you know. I won't. I can't."

"Then we will discuss ground rules... tomorrow." She went to a kitchen cupboard, pulled out a bottle of vodka I had never seen before, and a grape soda out of the fridge. Then she walked crookedly to her bedroom door and shut it firmly behind her.

I sat on the couch alone. Lonelier than ever.

So I texted Happy.

 _Aunt May knows. Oops._

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	5. Ground Rules

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TUESDAY MORNING

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I adjusted the strap on my backpack and shut my locker door. For a moment I pressed my forehead against the cold metal. It felt so good when I certainly didn't. I sensed someone step close behind me, but nothing less than normal with the typical crowded hallways.

"Hey Peter!" barked Ned over my shoulder. I flinched and came to rapt attention, spinning around quickly.

"Whoops, sorry," he snickered. "You're kinda jumpy. What's wrong with you?"

"Didn't sleep much last night," I replied, "Aunt May knows."

"She KNOWS?" Ned repeated way too loudly. "How does she KNOW?"

"Pretty much the same way you found out."

Ned paused. "She wanted to build the Death Star?"

"She saw me sneaking around in my room in the _suit,_ Ned!" I hissed, glancing around.

"I thought you didn't have... _it..._ anymore!" he replied. "I would have guessed that otherwise."

"I got it back!" I said exasperatingly. "Mr. Stark let me have it again."

"Wow, so you're totally an Avenger again!"

"Not really, I turned them down."

"What the hell, dude?! You're going to have to back _way_ up." He blinked and made a whirring sound as if going back in time. "What?" he gasped. "Aunt May KNOWS?"

I thrust a piece of paper at him. "This is what she and I discussed this morning when she woke me up at _six a.m."_

"Six? That's brutal." Ned unfolded the paper and read.

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 _Ground Rules_

 _1\. Report where you are planning to go after school_

 _2\. Report when you estimate arrival at home_

 _3\. Just report all shit in general._

 _4\. No more sneaking out of your bedroom window, use the front door like a normal person_

 _5\. Tell me goodbye before you leave_

 _6\. Stopping crimes does not take precedence over homework - if your grades slip away, so will your costume_

 _7\. I expect regular updates as much as you would expect them from Tony Stark_

 _8\. Make your damn bed_

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"Whoa," Ned said. "She's gone a little psycho."

"Believe me," I said. "It could have been _so_ much worse. You're missing the most important thing about this."

"What's that?"

"She's going to let me continue. I can still _be_ Spider-Man."

"Ooooh."

"You're grounded too, though."

"Me? How am I grounded?"

"For knowing about it and not coming clean. She's pissed at you, too. She said we can't do the Black-Cape marathon next weekend like we planned."

"It's okay I guess," Ned shrugged, trying to put a good face on it. "Black-Cape is sort of lame anyway. He doesn't even have any powers. He's just... rich and gloomy. I heard the new movie wasn't as good as the first one either."

"My neighbor already told me I could borrow his advanced copy of the director's cut with all the scenes with Mrs. Marvelous and Strong-Man added back in."

Ned's face fell. "What? _Nooooo._ This is the worst. _"_

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PRESENT

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 _I am dreaming I am back in the dark room. Pinned down._ When the Vulture brought the roof down on me I was trapped under huge pieces of broken concrete and steel. I didn't think I was strong enough to get out. I tried, and I was stuck. I was hurt and scared. It was almost, _almost,_ the nightmare that it could have been if I hadn't gotten myself out.

I had to think about what it meant to be trapped and if it was a lack of strength or fear that was keeping me under. The answer was an unfortunate mix of both. I wasn't strong enough to lift them up without putting _everything_ I had - everything to the point of wanting to pass out - into bracing myself on the floor and finally standing. But I was so scared, claustrophobic even, of being trapped that I almost didn't try.

This was different. This was purposefully planned to be the type of trap that was heavier and stronger than bringing a building down. This was carefully calculated so that I could not get any leverage to move at all. So I could do nothing but flinch when he scraped the sharpened screwdriver across my forearm, watching with dissatisfied interest when the skin opened up like normal skin would and started bleeding profusely.

"Huh," he said, "Interesting." Then he looked up at me with a look of surprise. "Oh, shit," he said apologetically, "You probably think I am some sort of psycho, don't you? God, what this must _look_ like. Ugh. I am sorry. It's not supposed to be that way. I just needed to check. There's a lot of people out there who are interested in what makes you spin."

I flinched again and wasn't dreaming anymore. I knew I was not in the room any longer. I wasn't anywhere, as far as I could guess.

"Still with us?" said a voice.

Nothing. I couldn't say anything; I wasn't anything. Not Spider-Man. Not Peter Parker.

Simply nonexistent.

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TUESDAY AFTERNOON

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When the final bell rang at last, I walked dutifully to detention. I was going to have detention for the rest of my life thanks to my previous ditching. Ned was in detention too, though he refused to say why, only that he had been caught playing on the computers during homecoming when he was my guy in the chair. Not exactly sure what happened there.

We whispered too much and were moved to opposite sides of the room.

"Let's discuss some ground rules," said the teacher exhaustedly. "Next time someone breaks detention protocol, and I won't say _who..._ get's expelled. Okay? Now watch the America's Damn Sweetheart PSA."

Michelle stepped in at one point, looked around the room at us with slight interest and a healthy dose of disdain, and then walked out again as if she'd given up on us. Captain America's voice echoed after her.

 _"One of the most important lessons I learned was respecting authority. That's important to know for a soldier like me..."_

Haha, I laughed. Steve Rogers? Respecting and obeying authority? He does like, the exact opposite.

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Keep those reviews coming! It feeds the starving artist


	6. Flight of the Arachnids

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PRESENT

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I couldn't be completely dead, not with this some sense of self-awareness; unless I arrived in the afterlife - which would be a surprising but not unpleasant surprise. There's enough people I would like to see again.

And just when I start to think I could see my parents again; maybe ushering me in like they do in old movies, I realize I am staring at wood grains; the stained, fake kind on a cupboard door easily broken in half. A cupboard under a sink. A sink under a window. A window with rain slashing against it with unnecessary force.

Something thick and plastic is shoved down my throat, igniting every gag reflex I possess.

I'm choking, and there's alarms going off.

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TUESDAY AFTERNOON

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After detention I said a hurried goodbye to Ned.

 _It's spidey-time._

I walked along until I found a good place to slip into the many alleys in the neighborhood, and shimmied my way up the brick and over the edge of the rooftop. I changed my clothes on top of the building instead of beside it.

I crouched at the top of a building, waiting for the inevitable tale of sirens siphoning their way between brick, mortar, and asphalt to reach further distances. I took the opportunity to web my new(er) backpack to a chimney sticking out of the top of the flat apartment roof (something less mobile than a dumpster).

"Hey Karen," I said, "Can you send a message to Aunt May?"

"What would you like me to say?"

"Tell her I'm just doing a little looking around. Tell her I'm sticking close to the neighborhood. I don't know that I'll even venture past..."

When the lonely wail came of both cops and fire trucks _and_ ambulances, I knew I had stumbled onto something big. Something really, really bad was going down, and I knew I could help.

But the smoke was across the river. Past Roosevelt island... Manhattan. Great.

"Karen?"

"Yes, Peter?"

"Don't send that text. Send a different one. Say this - _Don't worry about me, Aunt May. Rescuing kittens from trees and old ladies from burning buildings. I'm fireproof._ _I'll be home for dinner."_

"The text is incorrect. You're not fireproof."

"She doesn't need to know that."

I launched a strand of web across the alley, jumped over the ledge, and felt the cool rush of wind in my ears as I swung around the corner of the opposing building, letting out a spontaneous whoop of enjoyment that came with flying.

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TUESDAY NIGHT

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"Sorry, were you dreaming?" he said. "Didn't mean to startle you. Wakey wakey. Eggs and Spidey."

I coughed and spit out phlegm, dark against the cement. So, not phlegm. Blood.

"No one is coming for you," he said.

"I didn't say anyone was coming for me," I replied quietly. "No one knows where I am. I'm entirely yours."

"Mine? Yikes, let's not get all Stockholm syndrome here. I don't want ya. I just want to check a few things and then... turn ya loose."

My heart pounded. I forced my head, as heavy and dizzy as it was, to look up and meet his eyes. He was standing too close, all I could see was the bullet proof vest and the NYPD badge.

"You're going to let me go?" I asked hoarsely.

"Sure," he shrugged. "Why not?"

My head grew too heavy and I let my chin fall to my chest again.

"Go on. Why NOT?"

"I... don't know."

"Answer the damn question."

"I don't have an answer..." suddenly I felt a snap - broken finger number four. I wish I could say I did more than scream out loud, fought back, found my strength... I didn't... I had nothing. "P-p-please," I began to hyperventilate from the pain. I was crying, hard. Big gasping sobs, over and over again.

"Shall I finish up this hand? How do you feel about your thumb?"

"No, no, no..."

"Then why shouldn't I turn you loose?"

"B-b-because I s-s-saw your f-f-face."

He nodded thoughtfully. "And what harm could that do me?"

"Cause - I know - who..." I was trying not to throw up. "You - are?"

"There could only be two things you do," he replied. "Either you waltz into the police station as Peter Parker and you admit your Spider-Man and that I captured you and tortured you. Hilarious. You'll be all healed up nicely by then so your proof will be gone and I have an alibi for tonight. Secondly, you march me in wrapped up in web as Spider-Man and claim... what? Torture without proof?"

I looked up at him again, shivering hard.

That's when I heard a tiny buzzing sound. A small, tinny voice that I thought had long since gone out. In fact, it had. Something had damaged the in-ear, and when he pulled my mask off, I was no longer connected. But there are other connections throughout the suit, and somewhere else, there's a back-up com link to a certain AI. An AI that I thought had been crushed like an old thumb drive on the fritz.

"Your blood pressure is dangerously low," said a female voice quietly from somewhere near my collarbone. "And I did not discontinue the baby monitor program."

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Keep those reviews coming! It feeds the starving artist


	7. Water, On The Rocks

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TUESDAY EVENING

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"What was that?" he said.

"What... was... what?" I repeated.

"I thought I heard something... sounded like a girl." He looked with paranoia around the dark, cavernous cellar where we were held up. It was a huge basement, the horrible kind where the ceiling was just a few inches shy of seven feet, so even shorter people felt like they needed to duck. Small wooden beams supported the low ceiling as far as the eye could penetrate in the darkness, as if we were on the lower level of a parking garage with all the obstructions (cars and cement pillars) taken out.

He abruptly turned and sped off into the darkness. I could hear his weird little footsteps patter away, growing quieter and quieter.

I began to struggle. My arms were crushed between two huge structures (like vices for holding woodworking projects together; only for much bigger, stronger projects like human captivity) on either side of me, my hands sticking out on either side. My right hand completely useless; four of the five fingers broken. The left hand was fine, but it may not be for much longer.

 _"Karen,"_ I whispered, "If you can hear me... send... distress signal... B-b-ut -pl-lease b-b-be quiet."

The more I tried to move, the more my arms were breaking. I would literally have to tear them out and leave my wrists and hands behind...

I puked again, just in time for him to become visible again in the darkness, his footsteps shuffling along more urgently than before.

He came back into my vision, pulling the screwdriver from his pocket as he did so. "I know you're not so happy to see your old pal again," he said. "But don't worry, we're almost through here."

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PRESENT

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...

 _I feel so woozy._ The alarms go off and alert hospital staff that I am starting to come out of it. While I am just trying to focus on the colors of the room, hoping to momentarily distract myself with the concepts of light, shadow, pigment, highlights... my peripheral vision suddenly floods with people.

Trying to focus isn't helping me; in fact it's making me feel more panicky. I'm hacking and spontaneously gagging into the tube, which does exactly what's supposed to do when someone is unconscious, but once someone is awake it feels as if it blocks your air pipe. Even though that is the exact opposite of what it is doing.

Tears of fear and stress are freely streaming from my eyes, my overheated body starting to flail around and clutch at the straps around my head.

"Careful, Mr. Parker, I've got that," a doctor gently begins undoing the straps, and a nurse or two both jump in and push my arms down into the blanket. "Don't worry, hold still."

They withdraw the breathing tube, and it burns all the way up.

 _..._

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TUESDAY AFTERNOON

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...

I gripped my web tightly in my hands and made a full, wide-arc, cutting through the air and landing feet first on a top floor balcony of the burning apartment building with a metallic clatter. Heat and spoke gushed through the upper stories, the lower still unaffected. Shimmers appears by windows and streets, just barely hinting at the unreal molten that can accompany a burning building...

"Hello?" I called down to all the personnel below; firemen, police officers, apartment residents. "Is there anyone still inside?"

"My-my-k-kid," a screaming woman in her early thirties, maybe late twenties, waved wildly. "Sixteenth floor - room 64 - there's a window on the other side! Close to the corner! Please!"

 _I got this,_ I thought.

"I got this," I whispered out loud. "Kid needs saving. I know I can do it."

I turned and wound up the metal rods of the balcony above me, counting floors. I was already on four, so... five. Six. Seven. Eight...

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TUESDAY EVENING

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"Do you WANT eight broken fingers?" the man snarled. "Huh? I'd be happy to give you four on this hand to match the other."

I couldn't answer, I was so dizzy and thirsty that it felt if my bodily functions were slowly dying away.

"What's the facility like when you get past the gate? How many guards? What security systems do they use? Where does the Vision like to hang out these days?"

My head lolled heavily and I couldn't stay awake -

I couldn't think anymore

 _I'm asleep again..._

"The itsy bitsy spider, went up the water spout... " he began to sing, "down came the rain, and stabbed the spider's heart..."

"I am disobeying your order to remain silent on the chance I must call an ambulance," said Karen's voice quietly, tin-like and covered mostly by static. "As soon as I have connected to service."

"What the hell?" he paused with the screwdriver in poise. Seconds ago he was ready to plunge it right into my heart.

I relaxed my body for a moment and collapsed as far as I could above the cement floors, my arms straining and dislocating.

"Who's there?" he demanded.

"A direct line to the Avengers," said Karen sweetly, literally switching herself into speaker-mode as if scheduling him for a conference call. "Would you like me to summon the Hulk?"

"Shit, shit shit," the man dropped the screwdriver. He ran to where he left my mask on the floor and started stomping it to death.

I could hear the district crunch of the in-ear finally going. As the pieces became damaged, the connection loosened and failed. Karen's voice that had emerged from my collarbone, embedded somewhere in the suit, went completely static and sharp and disappeared.

"Karen," I cried, my voice cracking. "Call them. Do it anyway. Don't worry about me. Just call them..."

He slashed the screwdriver suddenly too close to my neck - and I suddenly knew just how much danger I was in. A few more centimeters and he would have slit my throat.

I coughed and tried to flinch away.

"Next one goes right through," he promised.

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PRESENT

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The nurses mumble sincere apologies for not getting the tube out before I woke up.

They pat arms and legs and ask questions I don't remember three seconds after they ask it.

I'm in a thin cotton hospital gown, under a thin blanket. Doctor so-and-so is urging plenty of rest and I'll be on my feet in a couple of days, patting the bed and abruptly leaving the room. I'm left with several nurses, all busy, content with an IV to do it's work when my throat begs to differ. One nurse is looking at the monitor and the other takes my temperature and one is getting me another blanket and not one of them seems to remember I just had a freaking plastic tube in my mouth?

My heads too heavy to lift off the pillow but I try anyways. "huh," I say hoarsely. "heh."

"What's that?"

 _The suit? Where's my spider-man suit? If I'm in the ER does that mean the whole staff knows who I am? Are there reporters waiting outside? Did Super-Villain with a badge already force his way into May's apartment and kill her; or worse, kidnap her to steal her secrets?_

"Waheh?" is all I manage to choke out. My throat hurts to badly it feels like I took a gulp of lava to try and quench my thirst. I can't use consonants.

"Here's some water, there you go." One of the nurses, a plump black woman in lavender scrubs, helps me drink a styrofoam cup of water.

"Do you want another one?" she asks when I've finished.

I nod fervently.

"All right, sweetheart, here you go."

I drink that too, and get some of the water on my face. Oh, wait, not water. Just crying again. Wow. Can't seem to make the waterworks stop. Maybe I should be Water-Man. No, that sounds stupid. Water-Hombre? Ned would literally slap me. I touch my throat and feel thick gauze covering part of it.

"Aw, you poor thing, it's okay, you've been through a lot. You just let it all out." The nurse rubs my back and tucks a kleenex box between my elbow and the bed-rail.

"I'm so cah- _huse..._ " I try to say, again certain consonants unavailable to me with my throat still on fire. "Wheh wah I?

"I don't know I am the best one to try and explain..."

"Pleahh don leahh me unnerring," I moan. "Ehhhnyhing?"

"Don't leave you wondering?" the nurse repeats. "Is that it?"

I nod heavily.

"All I know is, they brought Spider-Man in and he'd been beaten within an inch of his life. Tortured more than likely."

I blink. So... they all know then. That's it. _I'm done._

"Ehryone knows?" I ask.

"Well... just us, honey." The nurse shrugs. "I don't know about the rest of the world but everyone at the new Avengers complex knows. But... you don't have to worry about that. We've all signed non-disclosures, but once the Slovakia Accords is finalized it won't really matter, will it?"

I'm in upstate New York. _Not a hospital._ I'm at the Avengers facility. _Not a hospital._

"Plus, who would we tell?" she shrugs.

 _I'm actually... safe._

"Ahn May?"

"She'll be in to see you once the doctor has given the okay. Sorry, I know it's frustrating to wait to see your loved ones, but we need to report your condition to the big man first. He's the boss."

Of course Mr. Stark wants to hear the news before he tells Aunt May. Not sure if... flattering and kind, or years of Stark Industry ego (lovable and respected, but there nevertheless) makes this a certainty.

My only certainty is that I can't... stay awake anymore.

"Woop," says the nurse, catching my head and setting my cup aside. "Down we go. Nicely done, darling. You just relax. You'll feel better soon."

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	8. Parker's Inferno

Thank you all very much for your kindly reviews! Hope you enjoy x

Pip

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TUESDAY AFTERNOON

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"Sixteenth floor - room sixty four," I whispered, a manta. "Sixteenth floor - room sixty four. This is... this is easy. This is _nothing_ compared to Washington."

It was also a little hotter than Washington.

One-thousand, one-hundred degrees Fahrenheit, five-hundred-ninety-three degrees Celsius hotter. I was beginning to feel hot spots beneath the bricks of the building.

It was impossible to tell which apartment was which from the outside, and the woman could only say room sixty four was _near_ the corner. But I don't want to open a window too close to where her kid would hide. A sudden burst of oxygen would feed the fire, not douse it.

In fact, the heat inside could even be manageable at this point. Getting in too close could turn it into a raging, impossible inferno, rendering me incapable and simultaneously killing her kid.

I decided to avoid breaking any windows too close to the corner. I should find my way in further away and then work my way to the right room from the inside.

I belly crawled across the side of the building, and I heard cries and shouts from below as crowds on the side street were beginning to notice my presence. Some pointed, others called up and shouted things, either cheering me on or the equivalent of back-seat hero-ing.

I gripped the wiry railing of a balcony below floor sixteen and rose up quickly, throwing a fist through the window. Typical of baby-boomer apartment buildings on side of Manhattan, it shattered easily and a titanic rush of hot air spilled out in wavering, transparent wrinkles. I gasped and kept my head lowered, kicking aside some of the remaining shards, and then slipped into the dark apartment.

It was completely black with smoke, though luckily it began to immediately siphon out the broken window to the golden New York air. I dropped to my belly.

"Uh-okay-droney," I said, "Find me the door."

The spider drone popped off my chest with a happy little whir and buzzed off into the smoke. It's not a big apartment, but I'd rather risk a robot than my own lungs for as long as possible. Within seconds, it buzzed back, and shot off an laser-like beam into the billowing darkness. It was pointing exactly where I needed to aim -

I've seen those movies where the guys go to grab the doorknob only to be maimed for life because the door knob was over five-hundred degrees due to the fire in the hallway. I decided I really didn't want to be that guy.

My web shooter did the trick, a streamy white thread shot off towards where the laser pointed, and I felt it connect with the door with a splashy thump.

I tapped my chest and Droney (Dronie? Spidey Drone? Tiny Spider?) returned to his place. With a heave, I jerked the web back and heard the knob popping off, hinges snapping, and the bolts breaking. The door fell back into the apartment with a resounding crash, and that's when the flames poured in with frenzied violence.

I yelped with surprise and dropped my face to the floor again, throwing my arms over my head. It was unbearably hot - sunburn for decades hot - but the flames only extended as far as the threshold. They hadn't quite lit anything on fire in this apartment - yet. It was mostly the old rug and partial walls that was burning with hellish abandon in the hallway.

I could hear someone screaming.

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TUESDAY NIGHT

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...

I screamed one last time when he drove the screwdriver between my ribs. Not quite deep enough to damage a vital organ - but - stabbing is stabbing. Super strength doesn't mean I don't feel the same pain everyone else does. It just means I'll recover in two days instead of two months.

"I don't know," I wailed, "I've only been there... once. Twice. Twice I think. It's just a gate and some technological sensors and I didn't see any patrols... and maybe... they only do security cameras - I don't know - I don't know - we drove in - and I was fooling around on my phone's camera and I didn't see anything..."

He withdrew the screwdriver and tucked it, still dripping with blood, into his pocket.

"I don't - I don't - know - p-p-lease," I sobbed. "I'd - tell - you - if - I knew..."

"Shut up," he barked. He walked around the back of the structures, disappearing from my peripheral vision for a moment. Then he released the vice-like machines, and the metal panels opened, and my body dropped to the cement floor in a dead weight.

"There," he snapped with a fake smile, "Feel better?"

I couldn't move my arms, they'd been trapped in that position for a few hours... they were stiff and my body was shuddering so hard I thought I _must_ be having a something - cardiac arrest maybe - is this what it felt like?

"Listen, kid, I'm sorry I had to do this to ya, honest t'Odin," he knelt down beside me and in a frighteningly creepy, and yet paternal manner, brushed my sweat-plastered hair away from my forehead. "I've got people I work for. People bigger and scarier than me. I'm the little guy of _my_ team. Maybe you understand that, huh? Being just a kid. A high school kid. You're like the little sibling of the big bad Avengers, tagging along and nipping at their heels. I'm that guy. We're not so different."

I couldn't answer. I was trembling too hard, but at last, I felt my arms begin to loosen. I pulled them in close to my body and tucked my broken hand against my chest, bracing my working left hand against the puncture wound in my side.

"You see - with the people _I_ work with - I'm the new guy. They give me all the jobs they don't like. Pitting me against the guys I'd rather be friends with. Sound familiar? Naw, don't answer that right now. Anyhow. They want to know a few details about the Avengers facility. Right? So they give me a job. And it's not easy to come up with the resources alone. I mean - what's going to a hold a little guy with the strength of ten men? Certainly not the same kind of shit they used for bracing the propellors of a cruise ship when they welded them beneath the rudders - oh wait, exactly that kind of shit. I had to get it all down here myself, in a place where no one would hear you cry like a little pussy."

"So... typical," I whispered.

"What's that?" he asked.

"B-bad g-g-guy monologue. Sp-p-pilling all the plans. No-no it's good," somehow, my inappropriate sense of humor and bad habit of _quipping_ at these guys couldn't stop, not even now. Like Black-Cape's famous sidekick, the Red Cardinal, (played by an unholy host of actors for the last thirty years... the most recent incarnation some British guy from a famous a cappella singing group), I had the funny lines whenever they counted - and certainly when they _shouldn't._

But I was never good at shutting up.

 _..._

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	9. The Spidershank Redemption

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TUESDAY AFTERNOON

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I belly crawled towards where I made the opening. It seemed weird to stay so close to the floor when eighty percent of the essence of spider-man is the capability to crawl on walls and ceilings like no one else can.

But I am not stupid - and heat rises. Floor for now.

I army crawled out of the apartment and into the hall, shoving the burning rug aside so I could stick to the hardwood floors that - at this point - still seemed to have some integrity, but beads of moisture and other tarry substances seemed to be leaking from the grain. Something is melting under the floors and I couldn't fathom a guess as to what.

I was drenched with sweat, and a melting sensation that was likely my suit going on the fritz.

"Hey Karen?" I shouted. "I didn't ask before - it was dumb of me - I am not used to the, uh, special features, you know. Can you turn on that reconnaissance thing on? Find me room sixty four and a kid inside."

"Of course."

The lenses of my mask whirred and went into infrared mode - everything was blinding in yellow in red; not a single pinpoint of blue or green to distinguish one or the other.

"I am afraid the temperature is too hot to spot the body heat of a child," Karen said apologetically. "But I have accessed building specs to find the room you're looking for - it's eight doors ahead and on your left."

"Thanks - Karen." I began to army crawl again through the thick air, dark orange smoke hinting at flame elsewhere. It was growing thicker, and I wouldn't last much longer for breathing -

I nearly slapped my head. _I'm an idiot!_

My web shooter sent another stream of web with a squeal down the hall and into the blackness, hopefully connected with the end of the wall. Then I smashed the retraction and let the thread reel me in like a fish, dragging me at a high speed along the floor, getting thrown and tossed into the walls and I nearly whizzed right by room sixty four. I cut the line and smashed into the doorframe, swinging my body around and bracing myself on the opposite wall -

"Holy _shit!"_ I shrieked. "HOT HOT HOT!" I launched my feet forward, breaking down the door of apartment sixty-four and falling inside, bringing a toxic plume of smoke and flame with me.

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TUESDAY EVENING

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"Keep m-m-monologuing," I said. "M-m-maybe you'll say something important."

The man sat back and guffawed loudly. "I am not telling you any plans, lil' buddy. Do you have any idea what we're doing with the details of the Avengers facility? I'll even tell you. Nothing. Oh, you look surprised. That's right - nothing. We are doing nothing about it. We're not going to attack. Invade your precious super-human hidey hole. We're collectors of information. That's all."

I tried to turn away from him on the floor, groaning loudly. The freezing cold, cement floor felt like ice-picks jabbing me where it hurt the most. And yet, it was still better against my inflamed muscles and the places that were still burned than anything else so far. "Okay, well," I whispered, "You got your information."

"Almost," he starting patting my body awkwardly.

"Get off me," I rasped.

"Don't flatter yourself," he found where my old cellphone was tucked into the zippered pocket near my hip. "Gotcha," he said, tugging it out.

"I didn't... film... the facility," I realized I had given something away. In my effort to explain I didn't know anything about the complex (a painful lie) I gave away a detail - I was playing with my camera phone while Happy was driving. And I _was_ filming. I don't know that there would be anything except my stupid face and a double-chin shot whenever I dropped the phone in my lap by accident - but I don't know that I _didn't_ catch anything through the windows. Or maybe Happy narrated the drive like a tour guide and said something vitally important. I didn't _know._ And it wasn't worth the risk.

"Sure, sure sure," mocked the man. He was at first elated, and then he was looking at the phone in disgust. "What the hell?" he said, opening the back. The battery, along with the rest of the inside of the phone, was completely melted. The phone was useless to him - destroyed by the flames. "Son of a bitch," he mumbled, throwing the phone on the ground. It shattered into dozens of little pieces.

"I'm sorry," I whispered brokenly, afraid he'd hurt me again.

He stood abruptly. "Yeah, well, can't be helped, can it?" He looked down at me. "Remember what I said."

"You... said... a lot of things."

"You can tell the world you're Peter Parker and that I'm the guy who tortured you as Spider-Man. You can tell the whole world I am the man who tortured Spider-Man, but without Peter Parker there will be no proof. Lose lose. Either way you submit to the authorities and _believe me,_ in my jurisdiction, they're all just as morally confused as me. I'd get a slap on the wrist, if anything. Got it?"

I nodded painfully and the gesture made me cough up more blood.

"Wh-where's your jurisdiction?" I asked hoarsely. "Just... so... I know where to avoid..."

He grinned. "Hell's Kitchen. You stay away from that place. You'd sooner end up dead in a gutter than come any where close to _me."_

He noticed some of my blood splatted on his NYPD badge. He pulled it from his chest, spit on it a bit, rubbed it off, and re-pinned it. "I'm going to leave you here, I figure you'll recover in an hour, right? Ain't that how it works?"

I could barely respond. _No, that's not how it works. I needed medical help just as much as the next guy but not for the same length of time._ Instead, I nodded.

"Great," he said sarcastically. "See ya around, Spider-Man."

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Where's my review squad at?

Artist is hungry. ;)

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Guys today at work a seriously scary lady came in who was having a mental breakdown. She had nothing to do with my job or where I work (law firm) she was literally someone who was lost and ill and stepped in our office off the street. It's a good thing I am coooool under pressure because the cops took forever to arrive and so I sat out in the lobby with this gal for ages trying to calm her and give her water. She just came saying over and over the same jibberish sentence and at one point I thought she was ripping her own scalp off her head and it turns out she had been wearing a wig the whole time? Also she threw herself on the floor and started tapping her forehead on the rug. Dude I thought I was going to die. She was obviously very distraught and sick and has been through a lot of trauma, but she seemed like she'd sooner stab me with a pencil than stay calm. o_O It was nuts!


	10. Accelerant

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There are a few replies to my faithful Review Squad at the end of the chapter! Thanks for all the support :)

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TUESDAY AFTERNOON

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I heard the scream again.

" _Where are you?"_ I screamed, jumping to my feet and - _big mistake._ I inhaled too much heat and smoke and instantly slammed to the floor again, coughing. I ripped my mask off and coughed so hard my throat felt as if it had gone through a shredder.

I threw up a little and looked up blearily into the smoke, squinting. _Come on,_ I thought. _Where would I hide if it was me?_

I struggled back to my feet and kept at a crouch bent at the waist, maneuvering between a small bar-counter of a half-kitchen and small dining area encroaching on the entry. There's smoke but no fire yet. One look at what's lying around, and I realize that this is not your typical living situation. There's too many stains on the carpet. Too many upended toys. Cigarette butts lying haphazardly around, even on the floor.

I slipped through the living room and run for the window, throwing open the sash. Smoke instantly began to pour out like a Biblical plague - but not quickly enough.

"Where are you?" I screamed again, ducking and running lopsidedly into the small hallway where there were two bedrooms and a bathroom. I looked into the bathroom, and it was trashed with... _I don't even know._ Lingerie. Pill bottles. Trash bags full of things that smell sour. Urine and feces all over.

"Oh my god," I whispered in horror. What do you even do with this? Is there anything _I_ can do to help? _Not a bike. Not a churro. Not a kitten in a tree._

 _These are REAL problems and I have no idea what to do with this._

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PRESENT

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I'm in a dazed state of consciousness. Usually only awake enough to answer a question or two and then doze off again.

This has nothing to do with smoke inhalation, or lacerated skin slowly knitting itself back together in double-time.

This is pure teenage exhaustion. After everything with the Vulture, and Aunt May, the fire, and then the torture... I'm just so _tired._ I just want to sleep for a million years and play some X-box with Ned and then sleep an extra five hundred years just in case the first million was only a nap.

In the lavender and white state coming down from a nightmare and ascending into the land of the living yet again, I notice Tony Stark sitting in a chair next to the bed, his pointer fingers pressing together in a church steeple at his mouth.

"Are you awake or do you just sleep with your eyes open?" Mr. Stark asks abruptly. "Otherwise this is very uncomfortable."

I took a deep breath and blinked a few times to get my bearings. "Still sleeping," I lie, holding up my hand in front of my face. I wiggle my fingers.

Mr. Stark wiggles his fingers back, then stops. "Oh, you're not waving."

"I'm testing them," I say, my throat still raspy.

"The finger bones were the first things to start healing," he replies matter of factly. "They made little popping sounds when the bones came back together. Very disconcerting." He looks down at his own fingers in mild disgust and returns them to his lap, and can no longer meet my gaze.

"Mr. Stark..." I begin. "I'm so, so sorry..."

His head jerks up. "What the hell are you apologizing for?"

"I said things - u-u-under pressure, I mean..."

"You mean torture."

"I guess," I whispered. "Things about the Avengers facility - security and check points - to th-the guy who..."

"Stop," he holds up a hand.

I shut up instantly.

"One, you were either lying very well, or severely misinformed. None of the details you supplied were harmful to Avenger operations. None. Zip. Nada. Understand?"

"But I said there was a gate, I think, and..." I pause. "Wait... how do you know what I said?"

"All of the video feed from the baby monitor program from the last twelve hours were uploaded to the main server," Mr. Stark answers, suddenly standing up and walking over to the window, glancing out distractedly.

"All of it?" I ask. "Since... yesterday afternoon?"

"From the time you left the rooftop." He returns to the bedside and absently pats the blanket. "Kid," he says, his voice thick. Mr. Stark suddenly chokes up and can't finish his sentence, but only for a moment. He pretends he needs to pull his sunglasses out of his breast pocket and polish them briefly.

"Did you watch it?" I ask.

"I tried," Mr. Stark says heavily. "I _tried._ I couldn't. I have guys combing through it, looking for any detail... that we can use..."

"Use for what?" I ask.

Mr. Stark looks offended that I'd even ask. "Mr. Parker," he says, "We can _nail_ this guy. I promise you that... and without compromising your identity."

The thought of this guy being out on the streets as a police officer of New York makes me sick. I grimace and look away, and can't bring myself to answer. I can't think about it right now... if I do, it's a dark hole I may not emerge from again. I could just take care of it myself.

"You shouldn't have had to go through that." Mr. Stark says another voice break in tears disguised as a cough. "That one is on me, kid."

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TUESDAY AFTERNOON

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I rushed quickly into the second bedroom. There were Star Wars posters on the wall, shriveling and peeling in the heat, toy ponies and a Mrs. Marvelous Barbie doll in full battle-armor. There were dirty pieces of trash and half-eaten food items lying in various places. _Eclectic tastes._

 _"Hey!"_ I yelled, dropping to my knees and looking under the bed. "I'm here to save you!"

Nothing.

I threw open the closet doors, nothing. I heard a crash from somewhere in the building, and something that almost could have been the roar of a large animal. The fire was spreading.

I coughed harshly again on the back of my hand and rushed for the other bedroom. Checked the closet - nothing. Under the bed - nothing.

"WHERE ARE YOU?" I shouted again. "I'M... I'M THE HERO COMING TO RESCUE YOU!"

Kids get scared... don' they?

"LIKE... LIKE A JEDI! OR BLACK CAPE!"

I heard the scream again, but this time I realized what it was. It wasn't a person. It was the hot air pushing through something small, setting off a squeal - like a tea kettle, only much worse.

Suddenly I felt a _flickering_ at the edge of my senses. Not like fire, and not like hearing a sound, either. Almost as if a gentle hand had brushed over the tiny, microscopic hairs on the back of my neck, making me turn around, just in time to see the top of a laundry hamper shift.

As if someone inside had lifted the lid in order to peer through.

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GoTeamSkipper - Thanks so much for your faithful reviews! I remember always looking forward to yours for other stories back in the day, now I can't remember if it was LOTR or Narnia stories of mine that you followed. I just really appreciate your insight! I am glad the crazy lady didn't have a screwdriver too, lol. I have a weird tendency to write something and then have something similar happen to me in real life so I should probably be careful with this story :)

Cherubino19 - I would love to include Daredevil, that's kind of in the long-term plan. :)

Atlanta- Oh my goodness, what an honor! Thank you so very much.

Wedonthavetodance - Thank you so much for your compliment! Means a lot to me when writing in one of my oldest comic favorites...

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	11. Peter Panic

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This chapter stays in the present. This has been a PSA not done by Captain America.

-Pip

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PRESENT

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Mr. Stark abruptly leaves my bedside and returns to the window, glancing out. He clears his throat loudly and chokes back whatever emotions he's feeling about his protege going through a hellish experience. He taps the glass a moment. "Now there's something you don't see every day," he mumbles. "Vision running laps. He looks ridiculous. He's still wearing his cape."

Silence falls for a moment. I can feel Mr. Stark's struggle to speak but worried he's going to say something wrong. I have that worry, too.

"How'd you find me?" I ask wearily. "My coms were out."

"Only the part you could _hear,"_ Mr. Stark corrects. "You told your AI to send out a distress call, so it did as soon as you were out of that room. Weak but there."

I don't reply. Not for lack of words, only energy.

"We're doing some... upgrading," Mr. Stark goes on, " _Satellite_ upgrading. I want any daylight charging up a boost to the signal's reach so even the lead-lined walls of a monster's basement can't keep us out of the loop."

I feel my heart slam in my chest. Somehow the thought of the walls and the basement again...

"No matter where you are or what you're doing, you'll be able to call. That's what we're working on. You could be flying through space and still get in touch."

I don't want to think about flying through space. _That'll_ probably never happen to a guy like me. Vision, and Thor, maybe. Not me.

But I really don't want to think about darkness, either.

"Thank you," I choke out.

"Don't thank me yet. Or... just don't thank me." Mr. Stark shakes his head. "I still feel responsible. Okay? I'm going to mull this over for awhile. I don't just feel responsible. I _am_ responsible for you. I won't let this happen again."

My heart monitor lets out a warning series of beeps. Mr. Stark walks briskly over to it and looks at it. "Hey," he says, turning back and looking at me. "What are you doing?" He asks me this as if I were strapping on a pair of roller skates.

"I'm... nothing?" I lie. _Having a panic attack?_

"Looks like you're running laps with Vision. Stop that. Take a deep breath."

"Sorry," I say, leaning forward further and lacing my hands behind my head, just shy of bending forward and pressing my forehead into the blanket. I follow his instruction and take a deep breath.

"The apologies are really going to have to stop now," Mr. Stark comes back to the bed. I feel his hand leave his pocket, hovering over my shoulder, some sort of inner debate happening about what is appropriate touch and what is appropriate distance. He settles for a large hand on my shoulder and pats it kindly. "Let me hear, like, four more deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Let's be deliberate with our actions. God, I sound like Pepper." He sighs. "Okay? Can we try that?"

" _Yes,"_ I respond tightly. This is embarrassing. A panic attack in front of _Tony Stark._ A mentor. An Avenger. One of the _Heroes_ of New York.

Mr. Stark suddenly leans down and grabs something off the floor, and sets something huge and heavy on the bed.

I slowly look up. It's a huge gift basket. I mean, huge. Like there's fruit and flowers and a few toys inside. What the hell?

"What is THAT?" I exclaim.

There's a stuffed, plushy Hulk toy sticking out of the top. "Here," he says loudly, "Hold this." He takes it out and tucks it in my arms. "Mr. Parker, meet Dr. Banner. Dr. Banner, this is Peter."

I'm sitting there holding a toy Hulk and it's _so ridiculous_ I let out a loud laugh.

"Smile," Mr. Stark takes a picture on his cellphone, then slyly glances at the monitor. My heart rate is back to normal. "I'll send this to your Aunt. She's on her way. Did we tell you that already?"

I don't honestly remember. "I think someone did."

"Good." Mr. Stark fiddles around his phone for a second and then clicks it off and tucks it back in his breast pocket. I am still casually holding the Hulk toy and I am perfectly okay with that.

"I've dealt with panic attacks before, you know," Mr. Stark remarks casually. "PTSD and everything. There's help for it. We'll get it for you."

I open my mouth in surprise. "I... uh..."

"It's natural. Don't worry about it."

"I mean... you never seem panicked about _anything._ You're always so... cool?" I lost what I was trying to say half-way through and ended up sounding like a fanboy. _Really nice, Peter._

Mr. Stark points at himself in a _who? Mua?_ type of gesture, and then waves it off. "No," he answers, "Not at all. Turns out, surprisingly, if you fly through a portal into space with an alien army and the portal starts to close behind you - not exactly a _boost_ for mental health. Nor does it look good on a psych eval. But I wear it well, don't I?"

"I... guess so?"

"Huh. Sometimes your honesty hurts." Mr. Stark smiles at the gift basket, opens the card, and shows it briefly to me before slamming it shut.

 _Feel Better Soon x_

 _Happy Hogan_

I smile and wince, a flare-up of pain where I had been stabbed... everywhere. There's a bandage on my forearm, my neck, sutures in my side between my ribs, a brace around my hand, two IVs sticking out of me... there's even bandages on my _feet._ What the hell is wrong with my FEET?

Oh, burning building. Broken glass. Right.

I put a hand to my stab wound in the side and push it slightly, accidentely making myself moan. "Hmmmph," I breathe carefully. "Still... tender."

"Yeah this whole hyper-healing is going to at least keep you here another day. Or two," Mr. Stark says. "Of course any other person would be dead. So take the day. You've called in sick to school already... the flu is _rough_ this time of year."

There's a pause when I am taking stock of my injuries. I ache so thoroughly all over I feel as if I have been dragged behind a high-speed van. Now that I've actually done such a thing, I can make the comparison.

"Thanks for finding me," I say quietly. "Really. Thank you."

Mr. Stark blinks rapidly. "Yeah, kid. Anytime." He coughs loudly again. "I am ... going to hit the vending machine in the lobby. You want anything? Nutter butters? M&Ms. You seem like a Snickers guy."

Sandwiches.

"Chocolate is fine," I answer. "I feel like..."

"What? Chips too?"

"I feel like I'd be dead if it wasn't for you," I say quickly. "Just... so you know. I'm grateful."

"May raised a good one," he responds, patting my leg.

He walks quickly out of the room.

I gingerly lower myself back into the pillow and take a deep breath. Still holding the Hulk stuffy, I find myself drifting off again. Partially dozing where you feel like you can still see the light behind your eyelids but you're not exactly getting participation points either.

I'm half asleep when Mr. Stark returns, and I start to shift slightly to try and sit up again, my eyes still shut and starting to shift into a deeper breath. My brain is squealing at me to wake the heck up - _Iron Man_ is in my _room_! How did I end up a guy that's just casually hanging out with Tony Stark in a recovery room?

"No, no, it's okay," Mr. Stark pushes my shoulder gently down. "Go back to sleep. I've got some work to do. Just get some rest. We'll talk again in a bit."

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Thanks for reading everyone. I really look forward to your reviews. I go back to work again tomorrow - Boo Mondays!

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	12. Where There's Smoke

A Non-Captain-America PSA #2: The window of time between Tuesday afternoon and Tuesday evening in this story are slowly narrowing. You'll find flashbacks are now just Tuesday as we get closer to zero hour.

To new followers: Hello! please share some love and feed the author with your reviews. I see there are MANY new followers... but I am a review junkie. I desperately need words of feedback; the good, the bad, and the ugly! Thank you in advance!

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TUESDAY

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I did not want to rush at the hamper and scare the kid, but I couldn't hesitate, either. We were on an inner wall, so there was no window to escape from. We'd have to go back out into the living room.

But I could feel time running shot. My lungs were heaving just to keep them going.

"Come on," I coughed, trying to sound gentle, but hacking away at the smoke-infused air probably wasn't helpful either. "Come on, I'm not here to hurt you, I am here to rescue you... and take you back to your mommy..." I slowly lifted the hamper lid. The little girl inside was hugging her knees, probably about five years old, long dark hair pinned back with tiny butterflies. I slowly reached inside for her.

She took one look at the red, costumed hands and began to wail with sheer terror.

"Oh, no no no no no, it's okay," I withdrew my hands quickly and pointed up at my face. "Look, look! I'm not scary! I'm - a kid like you! I'm a kid!"

She was still crying.

Something made a huge thump sound in the living room, and fresh plume of black smoke thrust itself around the doorframe, rising up to the ceiling and billowing like a fog effect.

"Do you want to see your mom?" I asked. She continued to cry. "Do you want mommy?" I repeated. "I will take you to mommy! Let's go right now!"

She finally nodded tearfully and held up her arms. I snatched her up quickly and rushed for the bed, tugging a throw blanket off the foot and wrapping it around her. Her tiny body shook and she continued to cry loudly.

"We're just going to hide in the blanket for a moment, okay?" I said. "Just to keep the - the - yucky air out, okay?" I tucked it around her arms and pulled a generous fold over her head. Not enough to smother her, but hopefully to prevent too much smoke inhalation.

I soon as her head was covered, I re-covered mine. Couldn't emerge outside mask-less.

The air was turning orange and sparks were mixed with the smoke now. The fire had spread through the hall and into the living room, making smacking and crackling sounds that were so loud I wished I could cover my ears.

Instead, I kept my hand behind the little girls head, pressing her face into my chest and the other arm hooked under her legs. I carefully stepped through the hall, unable to see more than just a few feet ahead of me.

I took a deep breath, as deep as I could, held it, and rushed into the darkness, crashing right through a coffee table and arriving at the window I had opened earlier. I leapt with ease onto the sill, slipped my feet through, sat on the edge, and stepped out onto the fire escape.

The crowd below started screaming and pointing, camera flashes went off from buildings across the street, and firemen began to gather just beneath us, gesturing wildly. I adjusted my grip on the little girl to hold her with one arm around her waist, then held out my right arm to -

BOOM!

There was a massive explosion behind us. Shrapnel of brick, broken glass, plaster, and hot air blasted us right off the fire escape.

Ears ringing, we plummeted for the ground at deadly speed. I shot web across the street to the upper corner of the building across the way, stopped our fall with a massive jerk to my right arm, dislocating the shoulder with horrifying wrench.

The swing propelled us parallel to the asphalt. My shoulder hurt so badly I let go, flipping mid air and landing on my back with a crash, taking the rest of the brunt of impact. We skid momentarily, my body creating a groove in the ground, the girl still muffled inside the blanket on my chest.

We finally stopped and I lay there gasping for air, using my good arm to disentangle myself from the little girl so that I could pull the blanket away from her face. She was already shoving her tiny arms around doing just that.

Suddenly we were surrounded by firefighters and paramedics. One carried the little girl to her mother, setting her on a stretcher and fitting an oxygen mask over her mouth. A bunch were looking down at me, unsure if they're supposed to do anything.

"Oh, hey, guys," I said hoarsely, then I started coughing so hard I turned over onto my side and pushed up the bottom half of my mask, just enough to let my mouth show.

"You're not the guy that explodes into a giant green giant, right?" asked one of the firefighters. "Nod if yes."

I shook my head vehemently and vomited.

"Seriously, Jeff?" one of the paramedics knelt down beside me and put a hand on my back. "Hey, kid," he said. "Why don't you let us check you out? Make sure you're okay."

Again, I shook my head, still coughing. Unable to stop. Breaths becoming shorter and shorter each time.

"Can we just - clear this area for a god damn sec?" the paramedic demanded. "Hey," he said to me loudly. "Just let us get you some oxygen. Okay? Can we do that at least?"

I tried to nod.

They wheeled over one of those mobile oxygen tanks and pulled the mouth piece towards my face. I held up a hand defensively.

"You don't have to tell us who you are," said the paramedic. "But... at least uncover your nose a little bit so we can fit this on. Better knowing what Spider-Man's real chin looks like than having a dead Spider-Man on the street. Agree?"

Agreed.

I let the paramedic fit the mask over the lower half of my face, and make sure the strap was secure in the back despite being stretched over the other mask.

"Take deep breaths for me?" the paramedic leaned in close as if he was trying to listen. "Can you let me help you into a stretcher?" he asked. "Or... do you ninja us to pieces like the devil in Hell's Kitchen?"

Black dots were swimming in the corners of my vision, encroaching further and further into what I could see of the building on fire, the yellow firemen hats appearing and disappearing around the corners of their trucks. Sensory overload was turning into sensory deprivation. The sounds of hoses, water, reporters and onlookers shouting on the other side of a police barrier were beginning to fade in and out, replaced with high-pitched ringing.

Jeff made a scoffing sound. "And you gave me a bad time for asking him if he was going to Hulk out? Come on."

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe... out.

I felt the static closing in as I passed out.

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PRESENT

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Mr. Stark sits quietly at my bedside and flips absently through a magazine, then tosses it on the small end table by the door with a disgusted huff.

"Look," he says, trying not to sound frustrated, "I am not trying to drudge up everything that's happened, but, before he ripped your mask off, we have a clear image of his face. Later he tells us he's from Hell's Kitchen. Facial recognition did the rest. He's a Hell's Kitchen police officer. You can't march in to the precinct as Peter Parker and demand justice - but your lawyer can."

I roll my eyes and look away, fighting the sensation of panic fluttering in my stomach. Something about Mr. Stark repeating the same words as my torturer leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth. "I don't have a lawyer," I mutter.

"Yeah, but the Avengers do. The best damn lawyers in the country - don't you think I'd be prepared for this sort of thing? Defense, insurance, the shit us adults have to worry about. Calls coming in about how Captain America is being sued for bumping into a vehicle and causing some damage." Mr. Stark narrows his eyes. "Usually it's ordinary citizens strapped for cash and maybe they can't afford to repair their car. I'm rich but I'm not an idiot. We settle out of court and get them the money they need to repair whatever damage one of our street-battles have caused and then move on to the next one."

"But this is," I pause. "This is different."

"How different?" Mr. Stark looks incredulous.

"Well, I'm not a car," I reply with a sigh.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Mr. Stark says sternly. "That's not what I meant at all. It means I can help. Let me help you. Get it? I can send my best guy in there. We press chargers for attempted murder. He gets arrested and at least he's off the streets for a few weeks while we haggle the rest." He pauses and drums his fingers loudly on the arm of the faux-wood waiting chair.

I shrug. "But I don't know how any of this works."

"You don't have to. That's what the grown-ups are for."

My turn to narrow my eyes. I feel like we're steering into the same dangerous territory that made him take away my suit to teach me a lesson.

The problem with being Tony Stark is that he is... Tony Stark. A public figure. An outed superhero. He's got the Accords to worry about. Now everything goes by the book and under supervision of the UN. Everything is so public. If he makes this a thing, and pursues the thing, and makes the thing into a big deal... then that's exactly what it would be. A STARK of all people pressing chargers against New York's Finest in a neighborhood known for it's corruption is not going to give me - or Aunt May - any privacy. My anonymity would be gone forever.

That was the whole reason I avoided joining the Avengers a few days ago. Days ago. I wasn't ready yet. I'm a kid, and I just want to help Queens for awhile.

Bigger battles will come my way. Worse people than an NYPD officer, that's for sure. I should just save my strength for those fights.

"No," I say.

"Okay, so this weird, adult little habit that you have of telling me no?" Mr. Stark wags his finger in my direction. "This no business needs to stop. I am not accustom to being told no." He gingerly sits on the edge of my bed and looks at me questioningly. "What's with the no? Why this time?"

"Choosing my battles?" I offer.

"Nope, not good enough."

"The same reason I did not join the Avengers a few days ago," I whisper. "I'm still... the friendly neighborhood Spider Man? Not Peter Parker seeking retribution. Maybe someday, but..."

"Someday may be too late."

"Maybe," I shrug. "But... I don't want this fight. Not like that. And not now. Maybe never."

"Huh," Mr. Stark hums, getting off the bed. "Let me get this straight - you're done with the evil cop with a price on your brain. Zip. You just want to pack up and forget it happened."

"Sure - I guess, I don't know," I drag my hands through my hair and rest them on the back of my neck. "I'm confused."

"Huh," Mr. Stark says again. "How 'bout that."

"What?"

"Oh, you know, just, finding yet another one of my plans dashed to pieces by you, deliberately. I don't like it." He returns to his chair beside the bed. "Here's my thought on this, try to keep up," he rests his chin on his fist. "What's holding you back? Is it really your secret identity? Or is it fear?"

"No..."

"Before you answer that, think of it this way. You've seem some of those statistics? Those percentages of people that will stay in abusive relationships despite the domestic violence? You've seen those?"

I blink a few times, wondering where he would be going with this. "Sure?"

"Are you letting this guy go scot-free because you're afraid of what happens when you confront him and taking care of the problem?"

"I don't know?" I exclaim, getting frustrated. "Maybe? Or maybe I just don't have any answers and I don't know that I ever will. And maybe I don't want to do something I'll regret by default just because I can't think of a better idea."

"Hmph," Mr. Stark grumpily looks away. "And I don't suppose I can change your mind."

I shrug again, and suddenly I notice there's someone standing in the now-open door.

Aunt May is standing there, disheveled and horrified. "Okay, seriously?" she bursts. "How many times do I have to walk in on you and say what the fu - "

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	13. If You Need Us, Call Us

A Non-Captain-America PSA #3 - or is it #42?

I am working on a chronological version of this story if anyone is interested, I could always re-post it strictly in the Spider-Man section. I realize the disjointed timelines is a wonderful cure for writer's block and helps the writer but may not always be the best for readers. So if anyone is interested, give me a shout out.

Speaking of - Shout out to new readers! Thank you Queen of Crystallopia for the epic review! It literally just gave me the "oomph" I needed to finish this chapter. Don't worry, the story is definitely not over. Lots to tell. And thank you for your compliment - staying true to character is the ultimate goal. I just picture the Marvel film actors saying the lines in my head. If it sounds weird coming out of their mouths, then it ain't right, and out it goes. When it comes to Tony in particular, I just noticed that he talks really fast, interrupts a lot, and always has a mental bunker full of weird sayings or quips that make anyone he speaks to automatically seem less in-character just by their lack of ability to keep up... the challenge is not letting him over run anyone so that their character shines too! haha :)

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TUESDAY EVENING

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I woke up on a stretcher, loaded into the back of an open ambulance. For a moment I didn't know where I was, looking around blearily. Then I saw the same paramedic sat by, hands folded carefully, waiting for me to wake up.

"How're you feeling, kid?" he asked.

I pulled up the oxygen mask off. "I'm okay. How long was I out?"

"About forty minutes." He sighed. "That's not normal, but... I was afraid if I took you in to the ER they wouldn't give a crap about your costume and we'd have a big disaster on our hands. I hope that's okay that I waited till you woke up."

"Yeah yeah yeah," I replied hoarsely. "It's fine." I felt the top of my face and the back of my head. Horrifically tender, but, my Spider-Man mask was still on - albeit only covering me from the nose up. But it's better than nothing.

"You have another concussion," Karen's voice said concernedly. "Shouldn't you tell him that you've had a concussion already, and recently? This could have lasting consequences."

I ignored Karen and wriggled my feet, feeling pain in the soles. It felt like my suit had melted a little bit. It was too hot.

"Thanks," I said quickly, but sincerely. "I should... go."

"You don't want to rest here a little longer?"

"No, I'm... I'm good." I tried to sit up, he thrust an arm behind me quickly and helped me up the rest of the way. "I'm more than okay." My voice cracked, raspy with smoke.

"Why don't you let me pop that shoulder back in for you?"

I looked down at my arm, uselessly sitting in my lap, the shoulder throbbing. As was typical with my powers, I never really needed treatment, only time. A small readout from Karen appeared on the screen, even without me asking for it. It'd be weird to start talking to my AI in front of a stranger.

I put my working hand against my upper arm and gave it a slight push.

There was a sudden snapping sound, and the shoulder popped back into place with a pained gasp from me.

"Holy shit," the paramedic exclaimed.

I groaned and moved my shoulder around, testing it's workability. "It's fine, it's fine, it's fine," I said quickly. "It just needed some help."

"That shouldn't have worked," he replied, "That's the wrong way to do it..."

"No, I mean, it did it on its own, I just got it in the right place," I was starting to feel like I needed to get myself out of the situation quickly. How did I not know someone wouldn't recognize my voice? Rip my mask off while I was unconscious? Hell, maybe this guy already did. Maybe he snapped a pic of me with his cellphone.

"I've got to go," I said in a panic. "I've got to leave. Sorry." I threw my legs off the side of the stretcher and stood up, wobbling a little in place. I could feel tiny cuts and bruises all over my body from the explosion, but even if they looked like anyone else's minor injuries, they certainly did not feel so. They'd be gone by tomorrow.

"At least tell me this," said the paramedic, "If I let you go now, will you just... go do what heroes do? Some special healing powers activate and then you go save more people?" He held up a stern finger. "OR... do you leave this ambulance, walk a block away, and then collapse from smoke inhalation and an internal injury I didn't realize was there because I didn't examine you, like, AT ALL... and then you die on my watch?" He awkwardly put his hand down, as if suddenly realizing it was such a stern dad sort of thing to do. "Cuz I can't let that happen to you. Not a good kid like yourself."

"No, no, not at all," I said hastily, shuffling awkwardly and stepping over equipment to get to the doors. "I mean... option one. Yeah. That's a good option. I leave here, and I save more people... nothing bad happens to me. I promise."

I tugged on my mask to make sure it was fully returned to it's completely covered position, hiding mouth, chin, nose, and anything else that had been partially exposed before. No chances.

"That's what I am here for!" I said, cheerfully, jumping gracefully down to the asphalt. "Rescuing p-" A pair of arms was suddenly thrown around me in an embrace. "Oh, oh, uh," I exclaimed, nearly knocked over by this person's exuberance.

It took me a moment to realize it was the mom of the little girl that I just rescued. Her blond hair blocked the eye pieces of my mask long enough for Karen to offer reconnaissance mode. I ignored her.

"Thank you thank you thank you," she sobbed, over and over again. "Thank you for saving my baby."

I appreciated her thanks, but there's a part of me thinking of the condition of the apartment and signs of drug use. What exactly was the little girl going back to?

"You're welcome," I said. "It's - it's my pleasure, really!" I patted her back kindly and then stepped back. "I'm sorry about your apartment, though."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be sorry. It's not my apartment. It's my ex... her dad's apartment." she brightened. "Now she'll have to stay with me - and no one can say otherwise. No matter how many times he pretends he's sober and normal. If he doesn't have a house, he can't keep her. That's the deal."

I was so relieved. Joyful, even, on her behalf. "That's great!" I exclaimed, maybe a little too loudly. What are you SUPPOSED to say? Sorry your ex does drugs?

"Well," I recovered, "I... got to go. I'm sure there's a cat in a tree somewhere."

"Very funny," she replied. "Hey - before you go, kid... I mean, Spider-Man. I've got to say something to you."

I was about to throw my arm out and shoot web up to the buildings not on fire and get out of there quickly, but something in her tone gave me pause.

"I was coming to pick her up and the building was already on fire, and the firemen wouldn't let me go up and get her myself," she explained. "They were prioritizing different areas of the building to evacuate. When you showed up - she was the only one unaccounted for." Her eyes filled with tears, and she touched my arm. "They were going to get to her last. By then it may have been too late. It may already have been." She patted my arm and withdrew her hand, shoving it awkwardly against her jeans with no pockets to hide in. Her hands were both shaking badly. "You really are a hero," she said. "Without my daughter, I'm nothing. She is my life. I don't care what the media will say about you, I don't care if you're an Avengers mascot or a kid with a death wish. You are the hero. You got my daughter out of a fire. But more importantly, she's back with me. And away from him."

She knows I saw the state of the apartment and how unhealthy the environment was. "If you need anything," she said, "I'm living in Morris Park with my parents right now. Okay? I want you to know where we are. In case you ever need somewhere to go."

I'm touched. I've never thought of needing anywhere, with Aunt May always being my home, and now with the Avengers facility lingering as a future possibility. I was too young when my parents died to remember where we lived before I went to live with Aunt May and Uncle Ben. I can't imagine a world without Aunt May always being that sanctuary - but - I am still warmed by the offer of a stranger out of gratitude.

"Thank you, I'll keep that in mind," I replied -

and then,

nothing.

night

tuesday

night

"HEY!"

I reply-

"HEY!"

"Thank you, I'll keep that in mind."

SPLASH -

"You're welcome, Spider-Man."

"Nice to meet you!"

I'm hacking and coughing and...

"Wake up, Spider-Man."

I'm awake.

I blink and look around.

What's happening...

Where am I?

Who is this?

TUEsda

y

eve

n

ing

or

night

and dark

it's dark

help

"I'm talking to you. Wake UP."

(slap)

"There you are. Good evening, Spider-Man. Welcome to consciousness. This will likely be the first of several times we wake you up like this. How was it? Bucket of water in the face okay? Should I just stick with the slap next time?" A face leers into mine. "I'm new at this, but I drew a short straw."

I've never seen this man before

"We've met before. Remember? I gave you a lift. Involuntarily."

"If you need anything, I'm living in Morris Park with my parents right now. Okay? I want you to know where we are. In case you ever need somewhere to go."

That's the last thing I remember

"That'll happen sometimes - a gap. It'll come to you momentarily. Or maybe never?! I don't know. Either way it's you and me now. And we need to have a chat."

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	14. A Web Has Many Threads

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[Captain America calmly stands at a badly green-screened WWII memorial, then turns and faces the camera as if you are the POV of an unexpected visitor that needs his advice]

"You are probably wondering - what could a guy like me possibly understand about the troubles of this generation? Well, kids, I know enough to tell you this. A lot of soldiers deal with post traumatic stress disorder after coming back stateside. Back in my day, they called it shell-shocked. You're all dealing with you're own kind of shell shock. Maybe it's anxiety, depression, bi-polar disorder - there's a lot that I am not going to claim to be an expert on. But as Captain America, one of the things I learned early on was how to ask for help. I wouldn't be where I am without the fellow soldiers I relied on. You need that same kind of support team. You can talk to your parents - grandparents - a teacher - a school counselor - a friend. Someone will always listen. Remember, if you need help, and just don't know how to ask for it, you can call the number at the bottom of the screen... And maybe that's the first step you've got to take for yourself."

[Fades into a mental health crises hotline number on a black screen. No music]

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PRESENT

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Mr. Stark and I stare at my unexpectedly present aunt.

"Mrs. Parker," Mr. Stark begins.

Aunt May holds up a finger. "Mrs. Parker is my mother-in-law. That's going to need to stop now. It's May. Just May. Thanks." She walks to the side of the hospital bed, her face softening. "Hi, baby," she begins, and then chokes on a sob that she did not realize was coming. She covers her mouth with one hand.

"I'm sorry... if I worried you," I try to apologize.

"Shut up," she says, putting her arms around me and tucking her chin over the top of my head, crying more than before, but finally allowing herself to.

Happy suddenly appears at the door as well, and makes a nervous gesture, pointing to Stark and then the hall behind him as if to communicate it was time to leave. Stark makes an annoyed gesture back, holding his hands out like he's asking why. Happy's face becomes admonished with wide eyes both stern and impatient, and Stark relents, stalking out of the room and stepping into the hall.

Happy peers in one last time, noting the get well basket. "Good!" he exclaims. "It arrived! I was actually on my way to go pick up your aunt and ordered from the phone so I really had no idea what would happen there. You never know with the internet..."

Mr. Stark's hands began to tug Happy out by the sleeve.

Aunt May pulls back and looks at me. "Are you all right?" she starts looking at tubes and monitors and taking stock of bandages and bruises. "What is all this shit for?"

I tilt my head with confusion. "Happy didn't tell you."

"Like a guy called _Happy_ could say anything more than 'he's fine he's just had a bad night?" she throws her hands in the air. "It was like trying to pull teeth."

I bow my head, not wishing to do any of the explaining myself, either.

She lowers herself on the bed beside me. "Sorry, I'm upset... He did try to explain. A little. He said that you had been in a really, really bad fight."

I cringe. It's not a lie, exactly?

"The worst you've ever been in." she adds, "That some _perp_ had stabbed my sweet boy and that you were in the 'best care money could pay for' - which coincidentally - meant you were at _none_ of the hospitals I had started to call when you didn't come home after school like you _promised."_

"I am so, so sorry," I whisper.

 _"_ It's okay," she says soothingly, stroking the top of my head. "It's okay."

I didn't respond, and she sighed before continuing. "I pulled my head out of my ass long enough to realize that I could save time and energy by calling Stark. Then I realized I don't have the country's richest man's personal cell number in my phone. I called his company and I got through to the Stark Industries customer service line. Can you believe that? Customer SERVICE! I had to leave a message."

Part of me wants to laugh. A chuckle turns into a slight shudder. It seems like whatever I might find amusing is eclipsed by the fact that any moment of irony in all of this was caused by the fact that at the moment it happened, I was being tortured in a dark basement.

May, apparently, has a similar thought, though without the particulars. She sobers and wipes her eyes quickly. "I don't know if I can do this," she whispers, "It took - what - a _day?_ Post-bail? - for me to get a call that shook me," she hit herself in the chest, hard, " _Shook me,_ to my core. I thought I'd throw up - no, I did. I did. I got a call from Mr. Stark saying you were badly hurt and Happy was going to pick me up and then I was taking a brief helicopter ride to the fuh - _effing_ Avengers facility. Where you were still _unconscious."_

I shrug helplessly. What can I say?

"I thought I could do it," she repeats. "I don't know that I can."

"This won't be uh... daily thing," I try. It sounds ridiculous. "This is an anomaly. I _swear."_

 _Is it?_

"What - you getting into fights as a masked superhero?" May throws her hands in the air. "That sounds like _exactly_ the kind of thing you would do every day as an _effing masked superhero._ Let's not sugar coat anything _._ "

"No," I struggle to tell the rest of the truth. "Aunt May, I don't... Happy doesn't know the whole story, either, or I think he would have told you. I wasn't just in a fight. Fights... are nothing. Usually the bruises are gone by morning and - I mean, that's how I was able to keep it a secret for this long any how."

Her dark eyes look somehow darker with the worst of confusion. "I'm... wait, what?" she blinks and shakes her head. "So you weren't in a fight?"

"It was a little one sided."

"So you were beaten up."

"Sort of... abducted," I correct lamely, looking away. It sounds so dumb saying it out loud. Like Spider-Man is somehow above such rudimentary dangers to _normal_ teens. "First," I say, my voice cracking and going hoarse again. "Abducted _first._ Then beat up." I didn't want to say the word _tortured._ If I couldn't handle it, how could I expect her to?

Aunt May is stunned, frozen, her face so expressionless that she might as well be frozen in time, as if I was suddenly gifted with super-speed and running around her in circles.

She can't even speak.

"How?" she manages. "How did you - no, wait. Who would want to hurt _you? Who was it?_ No - never mind. Yes. Wait... who was it?"

"Just some... guy," I shrug again.

"Okay," Mr. Stark stands in the doorway again, arms crossed over his chest. "That's enough."

"Excuse ME?" May stands up, glaring at him. "This is a private conversation."

"Not anymore it's not. Mr. Parker. If you don't mind; I'd like to borrow your lovely aunt for an adult conversation." Aunt May looks so offended that I almost - almost - laugh. "You're mucking it up," Mr. Stark says to me. "We're not going to play this game. As long as you are under the age of eighteen, if something like this happens, your aunt is going to stay informed. Mrs. Parker - excuse me, _May_. Please step out into the hall with me."

Aunt May is flummoxed by the flirtatious Tony Stark facade slipping away to reveal the Iron-Man that he ordinarily is; commanding authority and transparency by his mere presence. With a slightly panicked look at me, she follows Mr. Stark's gesture to the hall and steps out with him.

The door closes behind them.

I concentrate efforts on listening to anything except the voices rising and falling in the hall. I try to keep the super-hearing down to a minimum, but I just can't tune them out. It's impossible.

" - we can gather," Stark says, "He was abducted some time Tuesday evening and tortured for approximately four, five hours or so - "

" - Tortured - ? What the hell do you mean by _torture?_ Look, I've got two experiences with torture - sucking Westley's life away in the Princess Bride and my grandmother crying in church every Sunday about Italian mobs going on a curb-stomping trend in bad neighborhoods when I was about seventeen years old. You're going to have to be more specific."

"From what we could tell from the tape - "

"THERE'S A F***ING TAPE? WHAT THE FUH - "

"May, please. Hear me out. His suit comes equipped with a monitoring system that helps us track his whereabouts - "

 _"Congratulations Stark Industries Incorporated United Federation of I don't give a f***!"_ May's voice is steadily rising into a pure rage I've only ever experienced a few times. "So you've been tracking his whereabouts and yet MY BOY - MY BOY is in there looking awful and somehow your _system_ didn't work to prevent that?"

"I know you're angry - I am _too,"_ Mr. Stark's voice rises as well. "I'm _pissed._ System flaw meant he was out of range for a time. His AI couldn't make a connection for a long time - too long. It won't happen again."

"What," Aunt May replies mockingly, "Because you're putting your 'best people' on it, right? This isn't my first circus."

"Yes!"

"And who might that be?"

"Me."

Silence.

" _I'll_ be personally upgrading the suit. This won't happen again. I swear to you. I... _swear."_

More silence.

The sounds of someone sliding down the wall - oh, God. Aunt May! I am so, so sorry for putting you through this...

Aunt May is siting on the floor now, hugging her knees. In a strange show of solidarity, Mr. Stark thumps against the wall and joins her.

"Now hear me out," he says, kindly but strictly. "Let me preface this with _he's going to be okay._ He's lucky. He has some sort of supernatural, miraculous, gifted, mutated, inhuman - whatever the kids are calling it these days - _ability_ to heal quickly. That saved him. Not us. We got to him. And it could have been worse if we didn't. But he's going to be okay. Eventually."

I can hear her crying. "Thank you for helping my baby," she says, almost so quietly _I_ can't even hear her. "But he wouldn't have even _been_ in this situation if he wasn't... caught up in all this. Since you started him on this."

"That's unfair. You know it is. He was doing this long before _I_ came along. Ever since..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," she says bitterly. "Since my husband was murdered. Thanks for the reminder."

"I accept what blame that I can, but I can't do more than what I am able," Mr. Stark says, brutally and honestly. "But this was a horrible, horrible thing that happened to him. The responsibility of this thing lies with the person who did this to him."

She lets out a moan; I can feel the air shimmer with her hiding her face in her hands for a moment, trying to blot beneath her eyes and cool her burning cheeks. She probably feels a migraine on the way. "Back to the torture," she whispers. "What did they do to him? He clearly wasn't going to be forthcoming with me. _I hate that."_

"It seems as if he was _collecting_ information for another party, stocking up on as many factoids as he could concerning Spider-Man, myself, and the rest of the Avengers... his main area of focus seemed to be this facility. How to get in, if needed. He's... disturbingly cavalier about the whole thing. He acknowledges several times that he's just a little guy working for a much bigger guy and he has no personal stakes in the process. Except for the disgusting fact he appeared to be enjoying the torturing."

Aunt May sobs again.

"I'm sorry," Mr. Stark says hastily. "That was my own conjecture, and unnecessary. I apologize."

 _"Who_ is he?" she asks again.

"One of New York's Finest, apparently. A beat cop from Hell's Kitchen."

"Yes, but _who..._ I mean, how do we even know all this...? Reports from a team of voyeauristic yahoos you keep on hand to view footage from a monitor in my boy's superhero costume?!"

"In a sense, yes. And we get a clear image of his face before..."

"Before WHAT?"

"Before he removed Peter's mask and dropped it on the floor and stomped out the in-ear mechanisms. Facial recognition did the rest."

Silence again, I can almost feel the upheaval of each breath it takes for her to stay calm.

"Give me his name."

"His name is - wait. No." Mr. Stark shakes his head. "I know that look, and the answer is no. I sure it would be a noble attempt at revenge - but he's a well trained cop, and working for someone worse. You'd be dead before you'd even try."

"Give - me - his - name."

"I will not give you his name."

"Oh yes, you _will."_

"No, I won't. I gave Mr. Parker the opportunity to take the next step here - and press charges within the boundaries of the law - and he opted not to. I know, I don't know why either."

"Oh, we'll just see about that," Aunt May growls. "That's not his call. He's a child - he's my child!"

"He's actually a very, very stubborn young man." Mr. Stark sighs. "I don't mean to... cause any pain. I don't. But his stubbornness made for a much longer and traumatic event that he endured. I don't know how. He was very brave, and he didn't give vital information away despite the interrogation... techniques. A weaker man would have done worse, and sooner."

"He didn't... he _doesn't_ look okay."

"He looked worse this morning."

"So what did this guy do to him?"

Mr. Stark begins to list off injuries like a grocery list. The broken fingers, the cut throat, the dislocated shoulder, the stab wound...

I felt panic rising in me again, flashbacks threaten to blot out their voices. My heart monitor lets out a warning beep.

Then another.

I cover my ears and bury my face in my blanket. I lace my fingers behind my head again and use my elbows to try and block out Mr. Stark's voice. I need the pressure of white noise. I need to not feel over heated. I need the static to stop.

Apparently Mr. Stark's team of "yahoos" as Aunt May called them hadn't gotten to the part in the footage yet where I gave away my name.

In my weakest moment... in the worst of them. The screwdriver poised at the corner of my eye.

 _you don't need an eye, do you? what happens if you lose them both?_

My own name.

 _What happens if i shove this into your brain?_

I didn't want to say my name -

Aunt May was the one I thought of when I did it -

It wasn't really my name so much as it was the names of my parents. Of Aunt May and Uncle Ben. Ben and my father - brothers. Reunited in an afterlife if there is one. My grandparents, long dead. The name that was left of them - the only thing I had. But it was Aunt May's safety now, tying back to her was exactly what I wanted to avoid. Protecting her was the most important thing.

 _"Peter,"_ I had sobbed. _"P-Parker. Parker."_

It's only a matter of time before this comes out. Before Mr. Stark finds out. _When the world finds out._

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	15. Passing Pencils

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NOTE:

I'm really sleepy on essential oils and nyquil right now! Fair warning!

Guys I am SO SO sorry it's been so long between updates and so SHORT!

I got sick last week and I've been fighting it ever since. I'm on like... day 8. I've always joked that whenever I treat a character badly something bad always happens to me in return and with all the whump in this story, something was bound to happen, lol. I'm so drugged up with nyquil right now; if I left all the spelling errors and mistypes in you guys would think I had a brain issue (hahaahahahhaahaha I sort of do tho sooooo yeah THANKS CHEMO BRAIN).

On the plus side autocorrect is kind of a thing and I'm really good at catching errors (usually) so if you spot anything have mercy.

I did get a chance to write about half of the _next_ chapter so hopefully the next update will be even faster. (cough cough, sneeze sneeze) I'm off to my nyquil slumber now...

ALSO THOUGH THIS IS IMPORTANT do you guys follow Tom Holland and his brother(s) on Instagram? Literally one of the best social media choices I have ever made. They're hilarious. End of public service announcement.

Try to send some lovely reviews for me to read when I wake up :) :) :)

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BACK AT SCHOOL

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A timeline, because I'm trying to wrap my head around it too. I make a list.

M - Talk w/ May

Tues - Apartment

Tues nite - torture

Weds early a.m. - escape

Wed - recovery

Thurs - home

"So what's happening on Tuesday night?" Michelle peers over my shoulder. I slam my hand down over the list and twitch from the proximity of her voice. What's the point of having spider-senses at all if I constantly lose my head in the clouds and let people sneak up on me?

"Huh?" I ask.

"What's that? Tuesday night. Torture."

 _It was last Tuesday._

"What's - what?" I ask, giving her an innocent expression as she sits in the desk beside me, then turns around and faces me, long legs stretching out into the aisle so that other students have to step over them with annoyed sounds. Her hair is extra frizzy today, her dark eyebrows knotted together in a suspicious gaze.

"What's the 'torture' stand for?" Michelle repeats.

"This?" I look down at the notebook. "Oh this is... nothing." I shut the notebook and put it away.

"Aren't you going to need that?" she asks dryly.

"No, no, what?" She raises her eyebrows again. "Um... no," I lie. "Why?"

She makes a gesture at the room as if to not-so-subtly point out that I'm in school.

"All right, all right, settle down, people, enough chit-chat," says the teacher. "Please get out notebooks and pencils and pens and whatever crap you use that's non-electronic to take notes. You'll need what we'll discuss today for the quiz on Friday."

Michelle winks once, and I retrieve the notebook. I erase "torture" hastily and replace it with "homework". She looks over my shoulder again, rolls her eyes and settles in her seat.

I doodle in the corner of the page, and then realize I drew a screwdriver. I start scratching it out, darkening the paper until the whole corner is dark and smudged with graphite. Then the pencil tip breaks.

I click it several times in a nervous sort of way, far longer than it needs, till the lead sticking out of the mechanical pencil looks like a needle in a syringe. I snap off the end and click it again.

Monday night, Aunt May found out my secret. Tuesday morning I went to school and tried to have some sort of normal day. Sometime Tuesday night I was abducted. Tortured for a few hours. Escaped and rescued early Wednesday morning before sunrise. Woke up later that morning. Slept a few hours. Aunt May arrived... they asked me to stay one more night even though I was ready to go. Went home Thursday morning.

"Dude," Michelle whispers, suddenly putting her hand over mine. For a moment I thought it was - something - romantic. Like she was suddenly going to whisper that she had feelings for me in the middle of History class. But it wasn't what I thought it was.

"You need to chill the eff out," she whispers quickly. "What's your deal? Are you tweaking?"

I could feel Ned's eyes boring into mine from the back of the room. We had been separated at the beginning of the year because we whispered too much.

"No I'm _not, not..._ tweaking." I answer. Michelle whips the pencil out of my hand and trades it for hers. It's a drawing pencil, a good kind. Soft led, 6B. Not mechanical and nothing to click with anxiety.

"The clicking is going to give me blood clot," she hisses. "Use that."

"Thanks," I say. I start making wider, darker stripes with it through the corner, darkening it further. Wish I could do the same thing to my memories.

Changing pencils didn't do anything for a shake that started in both hands; just a slight trembling sensation. The top of my head felt heated and slightly damp.

"I thought you were over the flu?" Michelle whispers again. Not that she needed to. The particularly loud lecture about how historical conflicts were influenced, and _not_ influenced, by 'gifted' individuals, or private industrial companies (Stark) or separate divisions (Shield) was extra loud. Mr. James had probably been watching Key and Peele again during his lunch break.

"I am," I say.

"You look really... sorta clammy." Michelle adds.

"Yeah, thanks," I snark back. I open my water bottle and chug about half its contents.

The anxiety feeling passes and I breathe. Slowly, in and out, in and out.

I wish Michelle would stop watching me - no.

I wish she'd watch me for different reasons other than wondering what the hell I'm doing.

"Dude," she says after another moment. "You're _wiped."_

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HOSPITAL

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There's still an uncomfortable lapse of time between leaving the scene of the apartment fire and waking up in the basement. I have flashes; more _feelings_ than anything else, but not enough to piece it together. Why I would even _want_ more memories, I couldn't explain.

Maybe it's a guilt thing. Maybe if I can remember what happened, I won't feel so guilty for letting it all happen. Because maybe I didn't let it happen.

Part of my brain is telling me that I accepted a _lift_ from an NYPD cop and assumed he'd be trustworthy. But why would I get in the car if I could just use web and get back to Queens in less than half the time? Why would I get in anyone's car at _all_ (even a cop) while in the suit?! It doesn't add up. One of the resurfacing memories is the cop saying _I gave you a lift, involuntarily._ Maybe he was just being sarcastic. One of the many traits he exuded while he cut me open like a science experiment.

Maybe I just can't let it go; a part of my own morbid, scientific curiosity.

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I try to sleep, and I keep flinching, in the dark. I've pulled the bandages from my hands, finally freeing my reset fingers. The dark bruises around my wrists are disappearing, the slices down each inner forearm are now scars. Scars that look like unsuccessful suicide attempts. _That will be difficult to explain._

I lift my head up from the pillow and look at Aunt May. The small loveseat against the wall was actually a fold out bed, which she made use of immediately. She wanted to keep an eye on me; as long as the doctors said they wanted me to stay one night for observation. One night, too many. Or maybe it was a perfect coincidence.

I quietly slip out of bed, and find a pair of black sweatpants folded nicely on a chair. I definitely don't want to wander around in my boxers and slip them on, almost bumping into the loveseat and toppling over.

Aunt May stirs but doesn't wake up. _Phew._

I had already been disconnected from my variety of tubes and wires; no more IV lines stuck in the back of my hand or heart monitor making annoying beeps whenever I feel panic lacing it's way through my veins.

And then before I know it, I am sneaking out of the recovery room and down the dark hallway barely lit, counting door after door after door until I reach waiting room. Seriously - how many injured Avengers does Tony expect to house here at any given time?

There's a desk with a glass window shut above it, and another wide doorway leading out of the _hospital_ portion of the facility and into other areas.

I leave the waiting room and go through the main doors. There's another long hall until I reach a T, most doors on either side leading to storage closets and small doctor's offices. On the wall ahead of me there's sign pointing _left_ for cafeteria, main entrance, elevators, and _right_ for operations, garages, storage, labs.

It doesn't mean _operations_ like surgery. It means operating the facility itself. The inner workings. Administrative... and technological. Maybe even a room where they comb through the video evidence of... of me. And a certain police officer.

I take a right.

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Thanks in advance for those reviews ;) I'll probably regret posting this chapter without waiting to go over it once post-nyquil but I am just really excited to post things, okay? haters gon haaaate


	16. Sleight of Hand

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PRESENT

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I maneuver down the hall and come to an open entry. It's similar to the one facing the front of the building, where Mr. Stark walked me down pretending to prepare me for a press conference that would never happen, and show me the new Iron Spider suit that I had turned down. It seems like a lifetime ago.

This hall is the mirror imagine; giant floor to ceiling windows on the left instead of the right, metal paneling with interesting looking doors on the right. All sorts of cool stuff I would geek out about are behind there. Maybe if I were just exploring to be an ass, I'd start looking behind each one. But I'm not, I'm on mission.

I walk down the abandoned hall, feeling the creeps of wandering a giant corporate facility in the dead of night. I even feel the need to glance over my shoulder every so often, even though my spider-senses are on high alert for any movement, and nothing could hide in the minimalist decoration. I had been thinking about this ever since my conversation with May this afternoon; and I realized I could never truly be transparent with her unless _I_ knew the full story. This was as much for me as it was for her.

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RECOVERY ROOM

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When Aunt May and Mr. Stark returned to the recovery room after their _chat_ , I tried to give some semblance of not overhearing everything they had said in the hallway.

I was lying on my side at this point, looking at my broken hand and trying to flex my fingers. Aunt May quietly sat beside me on the bed and pressed the back of her hand against my forehead, and then my cheek. Her fingers felt cold.

"What am I to do with you?" she whispered.

I shrugged a little and avoid eye contact.

"You're very brave, you know," she said, placing her hand gently over my broken one, so that I stop messing around with the edge of the cast. "You're a million times braver than me."

"No I'm not," I replied, my voice still raspy.

"Yes, you are."

"Brave guys don't tell secrets," I said, pulling my hand away. "Especially secrets like this."

"What do you mean by that?" Aunt May asked. When I don't answer, she looks up at Mr. Stark, still standing uncomfortably in the doorway, and gave him a shrug.

"Come on, talk to me," she bent down over me, somewhere between a hug and a smother. She brushed hair from the top of my head and got too close to my face. "You can't shut me out. You can't. I thought we agreed. No secrets."

I squeezed my eyes shut. "I know Mr. Stark's team is going through the footage."

"Yeah... he told me."

"Either they didn't notice or didn't pass along - or listened to the audio yet - I don't know. It's worse than whatever I said about the compound. It's worse."

Aunt May's eyes flicked back up to Mr. Stark, then back to me. A moment of recognition passed between them. Maybe he already told her, and I somehow missed it. Maybe they both realized what I was referring to simultaneously.

"It's okay," she soothed, "You can tell me. It's all right."

"But. I. I said who I was. I told him my name." I muffled my voice in my pillow. "Our name."

Mr. Stark made a sound, sort of like an _ahem_ and a croak. He casually stepped away from the door and walked down the hall, the footsteps disappearing. Probably about to chew his team out for not getting him the memo right away. Or maybe they already told him, but he realized our apartment is going to need a deadbolt upgrade. Maybe Ned needs a security detail now. _Oh god, Ned. I haven't spoken to him... I hope he's okay._

"Screw them," Aunt May said, surprising me with her flippant attitude. "I got put in an alumni directory a few years ago so assholes I went to school with can find me any time. _You_ didn't make the prospect of someone _finding me_ any worse. Trust me on that."

"May," I replied, "You know this is worse. It's a corrupt _cop."_

"Eh," she said, "From another borough."

"You have to take this seriously. He could show up at your work or... at home... at school."

"A tsunami could wipe out New York," she added, "A hurricane could kill us all. Artificial intelligence from Stark Industries could suddenly decide to fight the humans."

I think about Vision in Germany and the corner of my mouth twitches.

"Was that a smile?" she asked, poking me in the face.

"Ow. And no."

"It _was,"_ she grinned, and then sobered. "Look," she said in a strict voice, sitting up straighter. "There's a couple of things I'll let slide. One, even after _this,_ if you still want to be a hero, I won't try to stop you. Don't think I even could if I tried. Two, if you suddenly decide honesty _isn't_ the best policy, I'll just check in with Mr. Stark here and he can just baby monitor you all over the place and _I_ get full reports, and then you can just _try_ to be dishonest with me and see how it goes. Three - no, that's it. Here's what _won't_ slide, ever." She brought her other leg up on the bed and knelt, facing me and crossing her arms over her chest. "I will not _allow_ you to do everything I've hated in those dumb Black Cape movies you and Ned are so fond of - the weight of the world upon your shoulders and embracing your inner worthlessness and _guilt_ for every little thing that goes wrong. You're a _teenager._ You're going to f*ck up once on awhile. That's how life works." She slid off the bed, bent down and kissed me much too loudly on the forehead. "Giving up your name was probably the least you could do. I know if I were in your shoes I would have been giving my social security number, my address, every penny I had - whatever he asked for. Really. Now - I've had enough self-hatred for today." She lifted the gift basket off the floor. "Why don't we look through this mess? And if you _feel_ like telling me about your experience, you can. But I'm not going to force you."

I tentatively lifted my head off the pillow. "Really?"

"Not if you don't want to."

I sat up and thought about it. Maybe if I could fill in the gaps myself... _maybe_ I would feel like I _knew_ enough to tell. Right now it's just scenes of pain. How exactly would 'sharing' the experience look like? Hey, Aunt May, at approximately midnight, I am pretty sure he traded the screwdriver in for a knife because as much _fun_ as the screwdriver was it was too clumsy and dull to be precise enough and I cried and begged for mercy a lot?

She wasn't prepared to hear that. I wasn't prepared to say it out loud.

But maybe I could be, if I had access to the baby monitor footage. That's what the metaphorical lightbulb went _ding._

"Okay," I said slowly, "Let's... look at the gift basket."

Aunt May tried to hide the slight disappointment crossing her eyes, but shook it off. She started messing around with the cellophane. "Let's see whatchya got."

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PRESENT

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I come to a corner where there's a help desk. It leads to long hallways branching off in V shaped directions. The desktop computer is on still, it's light blue interface hovering a few inches in mid-air in front of the screen, the screensaver a simple log-in box floating aimlessly from each projected corner to corner.

It gives the whole area a sort of mute, blue sheen, like it's facing an aquarium instead of floor to ceiling windows.

Behind me, the windows look onto a dark landscape and the trees of upstate New York. Outdoor lights reveal the edge of the one of the big garages and something that looks sort of like a landing pad for a helicopter. There is so _much_ to this place.

I hear the shuffle of someone approaching. Someone slightly heavy set, male, humming under his breath and adjusting the static on a radio - Happy.

" _Shit,"_ I whisper. I panic and dive over the counter of the help desk, launch myself underneath it, and hug my knees to keep my long legs from accidentally kicking the desk chair away. The sudden movement reminds me I've not yet healed, and each ache and pain suddenly re-bloom with inflammation and throbbing. Particularly my arms and my sides. I press a hand against the sutures. Despite still being tender, they're not ripped or bleeding again. So I'm okay there.

Happy's presence looms closer. He's in a good mood, humming, tossing his small radio back and forth. I hear him tuck the hardware on his belt, and adjust his in-ear, fiddling with the tiny curly cord that goes from the headset into the back of his jacket. "Yeah, absolutely," I hear him say, and I realize he's probably on the line already; or worse, talking with Mr. Stark. "Yeah, I'm just heading out now. Just making sure everything's ship shape. Got some extra man power here today, cuz of the kid. Yeah. Hold on, some squib left their desktop on."

Before I can even come close to reacting, Happy comes into the console area. I can see his legs from where I'm hiding under the desk, and some badges hanging from his belt. I hear him fiddling around with the computer, sliding the projected interface back to the main monitor, click a few keys, and then suddenly, the hard drive next to me on the floor clicks and stops humming. I know somewhere in the building, an arc reactor is likely storing all the energy for turning it back on again in the morning. No cords. Interesting.

As Happy walks back out to the main entry, my hand slips out from under the desk and tugs on the entrance badge hanging from his belt. It's his security ID for the whole facility. The golden ticket, as it were. Did this make me Charlie? Does that make Mr. Stark Willy Wonka?

The clip undoes itself and the badge falls into my hand. I whisk it back under the desk _just in time_ for Happy to turn around with a perplexed frown, observe the empty office space, and shrug before moving on.

He's going to be so mad at me tomorrow...

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Your review give me life! Drugged up on nyquil again but luckily had half of this written already. If you find crazy errors you let me know! Thanks friends :) Please enjoy, and if you enjoy, hit some of those options to Follow, Favorite, Alert, and... of course... REVIEW! :) Thanks in advance!


	17. Return of the Nerd

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I follow the signs. The kinds on the wall, and the sorts you pay attention to in your gut.

Sign on the wall: _ATV Center._

Heart: Pumps faster

Ears: Electric humming; a lot of power, a vibration in the walls.

Skin: Warmer.

Sign on the wall: _Authorized personal only_

I press the ID against the scanner on the wall, it beeps, turns green, and the door clicks. I press the module and it slides open neatly, like blaster doors in Star Wars.

 _"Cool,"_ I whisper, looking left to right as I step in.

The room looks like an IT station, not as cramped as a security guard's monitor room, but not exactly the spread I envisioned.

Of course all the hardware is up to date, but the room itself is simply streamlined, white, rows of workstations with different panels and monitors at each one. There are windows on the other side looking onto a balcony, and that balcony (I'm pretty sure) looks onto a hanger where a quinjet or two is kept.

I make note of the window in case there are regular security guards looking in. The room isn't very big, which means it might actually be easier to find what I'm looking for.

I begin by searching the workstations for any sign of... me, I guess. It takes me a few tries of circumnavigating the room till I spy a small piece of tech that I recognize from my suit. I remember seeing it when Ned and I tore into the thing and discovered the protocols in the first place, during the field trip for the decathlon.

 _I wonder what Liz is doing right now._

I sit at the workstation and examine the small hardware. It's a tiny data chip, and a small metal clamp is connecting the wires to the adapter, which is then plugged into a regular USB drive. I look at the screen and take a deep breath, then toggle the keyboard to see if anything comes up.

The interface blinks awake, and a log-in field pops up. With a sigh, I drum my fingers against the desk distractedly. _Ouch, damnit._ My fingers are still sore from being broken... today. This morning. Or late last night, however you want to spell it. Zero hour.

I look at the clock; it's after midnight. So... yesterday.

"Shit," I whisper, looking around. This was a stupid idea.

I glance over at the data chip again, sighing. Huh. I wonder what else they plugged into the system.

I look down at the desktop. Nothing really. A tablet, a tablet pen. A few old fashioned post-it notes. One of them said 1) _Run systems 2) check on the AI 3) beta test new com link._

Bingo. Whoever this squib was, the reminders they wrote to him or herself were quite helpful to me.

There's no way I'm going to guess their password. But an AI can.

I look under the work station. These white desks all sort of looked like the inside of an Apple store, or something from a fancy Tom Cruise space movie. Everything is smooth and there's no visible seems, but plenty of blank panels.

I press one of the panels, and it slides open to reveal a drawer.

Perfect - there's a small, entangled mass of wires - wires I recognize from my destroyed comlink. I lift them out of the drawer, press it shut, and set to work untangling them.

There's no way I can use this to hear Karen, not this way. But if I jerryrig it to plug into the monitor...

I take the small clamp from the data chip, and clamp it over the exposed metal piece of the comlink's motherboard. It's about the size of a penny. I wish I had a microscope nearby to take a closer look at the details, but I just don't have the time.

I sneak a glance at the windows looking over the balcony. Nothing. My senses don't detect anyone patrolling this side of the hall, either. Some movement at the other side of the building, a slight vibration in the hallway I came from as someone passed by the entrance, but never actually turns into it. _I'm good to go._

The screen changes.

* * *

 _Input detected_

 _Approved AI initiating_

* * *

The screen lights up another shade, and the log-in box goes dark for a second. An audio wave-length appears in a sort of video-game looking form in bright blue. With each audio jump, the wave length changes, animation according to the words spoken.

"Good morning, Peter," says Karen's voice, the wavelength increasing with inflections.

"Hi Karen," I reply uneasily. "Firstly, can you _not_ tell anyone I'm doing this right now?"

"My activation is logged, I cannot control that," Karen says. "But as I am an approved Stark intelligence operating within my own base, I will not be setting off any intruder alarms, if that's what you indicate."

"Okay, okay, yeah, good," I say. "So there's an issue with using the computer here. Is there a way I can log in? I just need the desktop. I'm not... trying to get into any files or anything." I look down at the data chip. "I have all that already."

"I can log you in as a guest," Karen suggests, "But all of these are logged, you understand."

"How often do they check the logs?"

"After hours use of the computers will send an alert via email notification to a management position," Karen says, and if she were a person, I would swear she was smirking. "But they won't get it until 8 AM tomorrow morning."

"Let's do it. Get me in."

The screen blips, and the log in box shows the word GUEST being typed into the user field. The password is bypassed and it opens to a blank desktop. They certainly can't accuse me of stealing any Avengers secrets, thank goodness. There's no access to the cloud or skynet or google drive or whatever the hell they use to store things from here.

"Thanks Karen," I say. "You're the best."

"What else would you like me to do?"

"Well - that's it, actually. I'll talk to you again once when the hardware is repaired in the suit."

"What do _you_ plan to do?"

"Why?" I ask, bemused. "You worried?"

"I do not worry," Karen says. "But I feel that I must warn you that using my capabilities to access unauthorized hardware _may_ be considered severe breach of..."

I wince as I cut her short by unclipping the motherboard. The audio wave disappears from the screen, leaving only the blank desktop screen, the same light blue interface as all the others.

"Sorry Karen," I say regrettably, as I reclip the wire onto the data chip again.

A circular module pops up on the floating screen, and I use my hand to twist it, highlighting different options like a wheel in a game show.

* * *

\- Access code

\- Troubleshoot

\- Manual

\- Data

\- Hardware

\- Data

\- Utilities

\- Terminal

\- System Files

\- Full Programs

* * *

-Training Wheels Protocol

\- Baby Monitor Program

\- Reconnaissance

\- Catch and Release

\- Heat Register Detection

* * *

I blink. There's a _lot._ Scrolling down the page, there's hundreds of full programs. Not enough to look into now - but someday.

I click on baby monitor program.

* * *

\- Baby Monitor Program

\- Audio

* * *

This could be good. I tap my finger on the file, and another circular module floats on the screen. I twist it with my fingertips, same as the other, to see the line of programs appear.

* * *

\- Stark. Ind. Only Signals

\- Greetings

\- Foreign Languages

\- Commands

\- Dictionary

* * *

 _Nope._

* * *

\- VSC

\- Data

\- 14.200-14

\- 14.201-14

\- 14.202-14

* * *

 _This is going to take forever,_ I think. I tap on one of the data files with a sigh.

* * *

\- VD code

* * *

 _Nope._

I tap the next one.

* * *

\- System hardware

 _Nope._

I click the third one.

* * *

\- mp4 downloads

* * *

 _Oh, shit, that's it._ I nervously tap on it, my stomach suddenly queasy. There's a square that slides into the screen, full of thumbnails. Each thumbnail is a gif, with movement for about three seconds so I can tell which video it is by sight. One thumbnail is three seconds of being airborne in the New York Skyline. One is scaling a brick wall. There's one with a burst of electrical energy - the ATM robbery. I am scrolling through the last few weeks of footage, each mp4 file broken down by the day, a few hours each. There's some options spinning on a little wheel in the upper right corner, indicating I can split the videos further - organize by night, or day, or by the minute. I can search for videos by key words used in the audio or by dragging an image in for facial recognition.

I'm getting closer.

One is my bedroom ceiling as I sneak in. Another brick wall. One looks dark, with a sudden burst of orange. _The apartment fire._

I press my hand to the wound in my side, suddenly feeling the urge to vomit. _Not right now._

I click the next video, a thumbnail of a city street. It's getting dark, and there's a streetlamp turning on automatically.

The video pops up and begins to play. I tap the corner where there is a tiny bell icon to bring the volume up.

I can hear my own breathing from the output as the video shows my point of view. The city streets are dark, lights beginning to buzz and thrum as they turn on at dusk. My POV swings around, looks back behind me in the distance. Suddenly I'm there. _I'm there._ I can feel myself there - the smells of the city, the temperature dropping, the colors.

It's like a time-loop in an old movie. As the plot unfolds, each millisecond returns the memory to me, remembering and learning for the first time simultaneously. A paradox of both input and output.

...

...

TUESDAY NIGHT

...

...

There's a nice view of Manhattan, after I cross the Queensboro bridge over Roosevelt island on my way home. The apartment fire smoke up in the northeast (a little bit inland) is still billowing into the horizon - a plume of orange and purple against a darkening blue sky. It's almost pretty. On the street, a pair of slow headlights move quietly along.

I drop down to the side of a brick wall, whizzing forward at breakneck speed, pausing as the sound of web sticks to a higher surface and cuts short the descent. I pause in a dark alley, the POV looking about.

There's a homeless guy curled up at the base of a drainpipe. When I stuck the landing, I accidentally woke him.

He startles and holds a small knife out in front of him.

"Who's that?" he gasps, his voice gnarly with a long life of smoke damage. "What'dya want? I got nothing!"

"Easy," I say, "Not here to hurt you. Just taking a short cut." Shadows and headlights pass us by. My spidery senses don't have anything on this old man. He's probably tired, hungry, and from the looks of it, dealing with a lifetime struggle of addictions.

"Come on, out, then, leave an old man to his sleep," he barks back. "You don't take short cuts through here unless you aim to be robbed. Even if you are in fancy pajamas. Hear me kid?"

"I hear you." I grasp the wall again with my hands and climb up the corner of the building, slipping around to the other side. Once I reach the second story, I look up. Some of the apartment buildings in this sector are much shorter. All brick, all apartments, very low income, four or five stories at the most. A whole block of them.

I notice the slight whine of old car brakes being applied. A car door opens below, and I look down out of pure curiosity.

"Can I give you a lift?" calls a friendly voice.

"Wait, what?" I ask, surprised I was even being addressed.

Suddenly there's a strange squeal, when something in his hands glows brightly - a huge white light erupts -

 _BANG!_

There's a splatter - blood - my blood - against the brick wall, grip loosens,

falling -

 _CRASH_

I crumple against the balcony, gasping with pain, scrambling to my hands and knees to recover, pulling myself up and over the edge to get up to the roofline -

And then another, white light, squeal,

 _BANG!_

I fall off the balcony, plummeting to the sidewalk, where I land, broken cement slamming hard against my body - I've lost my breath -

He has one of Toomes's weapons. _The high energy blast designed from alien tech..._

Even down on the sidewalk, body shaking from the impact, my limbs struggle to regain control. Turning up and over, kneeling, beginning to stand -

Another squeal, and bang. This time blood explodes on the sidewalk beneath me. My head space completely steps out of body, screaming in a high-pitched ringing, dots swimming in my vision. _I'm about to pass out,_ I think logically. _Don't hit your head._

...

...

* * *

Author's warning: The next few chapters are why I upped the rating a few days ago. If ya'll read through it and think it can go back down to T, lemme know, I'll change it back. But just to be safe. I realized that generally using the F-bomb makes ratings go up anyway, and I've already done that, so. You can let me know if you think I'm being overzealous.

Note: I also decided that when this story is finished, I am definitely going to re-upload it in the Spider-Man category in chronological order for those who desired to read the story as a whole instead of being told through progressive-present and flashbacks and flash forwards.

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	18. Taken

...

...

* * *

...

...

...

TUESDAY NIGHT

...

...

I try to stand, but unconsciousness keeps trying to take over. I fall over to the ground again, one hand pressed behind my hand, the glove coming away with blood.

 _head wound_

"Karen?" I whisper - no answer, a fizzle. _The white light._

Something electromagnetic knocked out my AI.

I'm dizzy - I can't see who shot me - I see the headlights, still, blaring at me. Enveloping me in a white light.

The sensory overload is too much.

I catch a glimpse of an NYPD uniform; briefly, in my vision, swimming back and forth between the lights and the darkness.

 _I'm okay,_ I think. "Help, sir, please," I whisper. "I've - I've been hurt. I need help."

It doesn't occur to me that this is the person who just shot me.

The man bends down over me. "I said I'd give you a lift," he says. "Shoulda listened."

He's wearing some tactical gear, his face passive. His hand reached down and pushes against the wound

 _I didn't realize_

on my chest

 _that's where the blood is coming from from the second blast of energy._

My breath hitches and my whole body goes rigid - prepared to fight no matter what the cost -

A familiar squeal fills the air, and the white light hits me again. The gun's end opens up sort of claw-shaped mechanism, and two small U-shaped pieces come flying out. Each one slams against each wrist, locking around my web shooters and squeezing -

I feel each web shooter _SNAP..._ and crush, the metal breaking.

And then the bones beneath

them

break

first, snap. Second, snap. Not a snap, like a sound, a deeper snap, the absolute horror of the sensation fills me up like water -

" _Jesus Christ,"_ I'm screaming - _Shit shit shit shit - "Karen?!"_

In a burst of energy and adrenaline, I am scrambling to my feet - too quickly.

The feeling of a balloon escaping my head lifts up, and over, closing shut above my head and incasing me in darkness,

unconscious, at last.

I fall again. This time I stay.

I'm alone

I'm alone

 _alone_

...

My body is dragged to the car. Lifted into the backseat. Legs secured at the ankles by the same kind of technological cuff. Wrists already useless. Head freely bleeding onto the... plastic tarps... laying across the seats. _Clean up crew._

I'm not getting out of this alive -

He drives - muttering to himself - talking to himself. No, a headset.

"You can tell the big man I got him. I'll do what needs to be done."

A reply.

"What, you don't think I know what Fisk is capable of?"

Another beat.

"I know he's in prison. Idiot. You don't think he has a long reach? It extends beyond the island. Beyond Hell's Kitchen. That's for sure."

Pause.

"Look, it's different when these so-called Avengers are looking at the big picture. Alien invasions and cosmic tragedies. They are blind to the underworld."

Beat.

"Yeah yeah yeah, but then - THEN - you get these _whack jobs_ interfering with our world. They leave the aliens to the big boys and start coming after _us._ Spider kid. The devil. That chick who can't keep her nose out of our businesses."

A response.

"Oh yeah and now there's a bullet proof one and a guy that glows like Casper the friendly boxer? Great. _Great._ Just what I wanted to hear tonight when I got one of their own. Thanks for telling be _before_ I agreed. _"_

I don't know what he means by _one of their own._ Someone else like me was out there stopping crime on the street level? They must be a lot better at being subtle than the rest... I don't know about any of the guys he was talking about. Though the devil part - that rings a bell.

"What," he continues, "Don't you think we gotta start small? Toomes operation was very valuable to us. With it going down, there had to be retaliation - namely taking care of the problem. The problem, as it turns out, is just a kid. Easily dealt with. Now if _I_ can't manage it I'd like to see one of you idiots give it a try with one of the bigger players."

I had heard of some kind of crime splurge in Hell's Kitchen hampered by someone they called _the Devil_ but I thought it was meant in a metaphorical sense. I never actually read anything much about it.

"I have my orders," he says, "You have yours. Let's continue to have a good working relationship."

Suddenly his teeth grind and his lips curl -

" _If you hurt them,"_ he snarls, saliva flying from his mouth, eyes almost immediately turning blood shot with unparalleled rage - "If you _hurt them,_ the whole operation goes. I swear to you. Every single underling that isn't imprisoned will be outed - I'll set the f*cking Avengers after you personally. I got connections, you asshole. Got it?"

He calms.

"Good, then we understand each other. You tell 'em I'll see 'em tomorrow, just as planned. Once I've - cleaned up a little bit." A shrug. "I got a few toys leftover from Toomes. Got one of the last batches before _he_ went under. You'll have to reach out for some other contacts. Hell, I'll sell you mine when I'm through. Okay? Yeah - all right, brother. Tomorrow."

...

I groan, everything hurts so bad - broken wrists - blood soaking through the suit, lacerations on the chest, the back of my head.

"P-please," I whisper.

"P-p-p-please," the man mocks. "Pleeeeease. Pretty please." He jerks the wheel over, and we've pulled into an alleyway. The brake squeals a little when we stop.

I try to sit up, but he's already opening the back door, in his hands, some sort of contraption that looks almost like gauntlet, but instead of hand-shaped armor, a circular end. Round, large, humming with electromagnetic energy. There's a hum of power, and the cuffs around my wrists suddenly jerk outward, sticking to the magnetic end. I cry out with the impact and strain of the broken wrists being jerked out of place.

He uses the magnetic gauntlet to drag me out of the car, my wrists drawn up and over my head. My body thumps against old pavement. I feel every bump and piece of trash on the ground, from the car to the door in the side of the building, opened to reveal darkness.

"Help," I say again, helplessly, struggling to break free of the wrist holds. Nothing - no strength - he was prepared for me. He knew my weak points - how to keep me from moving.

Then everything goes black, my body hits the top of a flight of cement stairs. Twelve steps down, hitting each one, crying aloud with growing alarm.

"SHUT UP, or it'll be the worse for you," the man shouts at me.

I don't listen - I'll regret it later. I know I will.

I scream again. "HELP! PLEASE! SOMEBODY!"

He grabs a handful of my hair damp with blood from the head wound - gives it a yank - my scream shrinks into a whimper.

"That's better," he says.

We're in a garage. One of those old parking garages, the ceiling too low for anything but really old sedans. It's abandoned, but at the bottom of the stairs there's a sort work station set up - two huge pieces of machinery, like vices, meant for holding huge construction projects in place - boats, skyscrapers, arc reactors. Anything that would need to clamp something stronger than itself -

like me -

I struggle again, but he wrenches my arms away from the gauntlet, one cuff in each vice, slamming a handle until they both close on each arm. I'd be standing at this point if I could keep my legs from buckling, but I can't, _I can't,_ _I can't..._

I hang there, like a really demented crucifix, arms straining at being held at such an awful angle - one shoulder slowly dislocates. It pops out and sends shrieking, agonizing pain through my whole side. I scream again from the extreme, white-hot pain throbbing -

Unconscious, silence.

My silence.

He waits.

...

...

AVENGERS FACILITY

...

...

I had forgotten I was watching a video. I hit pause. The sudden silence enveloped me, reminding me where I was.

Safe.

I slip out of the chair and down to the floor, feeling lightheaded and weak. I didn't realize I had pushed myself under the desk until that's where I was, holding my head and pressing my forehead into my knees. The things I had forgotten were coming back.

I felt the ridge of a scar under my hair, already healed even by the time I was rescued. My wrists and shoulders were so sore and bruised - that explains a lot.

The video could wait - a moment.

I needed a moment.

 _Breathe in, and out, in, and out. breathe in out in out out out out out out out out out out_

I adjust my knees so I can lower my head further. I don't wait to faint

don't faint don't faint

I grasp the small waste basket beside me and vomit into it, candy bar and jello remains from earlier wetly smacking against the inside amongst old post its and a broken set of ear buds.

Black dots swim into my vision again.

 _No no no no..._

not under some guy's desk with your own abduction footage on pause above you...

can't breathe

breathe.

In out out out

no

in and out

in and out

Out

Out

out

 _shit_

...

...

I twitch awake.

Looking blearily around me. _Shit._

I _did_ faint. Damnit. What kind of whimpy ass hero faints under a desk? Ugh... this one, I guess.

I crawl out from under the desk and hoist myself back into the chair. I look at the interface clock. I was only out for a minute and forty seconds. Not long, but... I feel... rested. Better, almost. Emptied, that's for certain. I look confusedly down at the waist basket. How am I supposed to... I'll worry about it later.

I take a deep, shaky breath. And press play again.

...

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* * *

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A/N: After these next few chapters if you think the rating should have stayed a T, you let me know ;)

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QUIZ TIME! Who is your favorite Avenger? Why? Would you like any of them to possibly make cameos in this story? I don't want to do *too* much that jeopardizes this bridging the gap between Homecoming and Infinity War for Peter. I am sort of a stickler for TRYING to stay canon :)

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Who's interested in hearing my personal Spider Man story? Other than the one you're reading above? I just have an interesting story where I literally had something like a spider-man moment... sort of like having a super power... of course it was a one time thing and I've never had anything superhuman happen to me since, haha. Let me know!

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PLEASE PRETTY PLEASE send me those reviews! I need them to survive! For every review I get, I'll through in an extra paragraph in the next chapter. Eh? EH? This should be a nice trade for the fans ;)


	19. Hell's Basement

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A/N: Dear readers - If you don't like having a "face" character for reading (where we suggest an actor or an actress to imagine as different characters if you want someone to imagine) then skip this note!

If you DO like having a "face" character to go with your reading, I imagine the actor Scott Caan as the evil kidnapper/police officer. He plays Detective Danny Williams in Hawaii Five-0. LOL Shocking, huh?! He's my favorite! Why would I imagine him as such a HORRIBLE human being?! Well, he's an excellent actor. He's also one of those "tough" guys who can easily play a sadistic villain. He just seemed right for the role. :) (And I am not throwin' away my, shot... I am not throwin' away my - shot!)

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anyways, carry on my wayward sons (so many fandom references right now)

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* * *

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TUESDAY NIGHT

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...

"HEY!" the man yells. "HEY!"

 _SPLASH._

The shock of waking from cold water hits me full force.

I'm hacking and spluttering. "Agh," I cough, gagging twice. Water dribbles down my hair, face, out of my mouth. It soaked right through the mask. I drool helplessly, unable to wipe my face, blinking, the lenses making a slight fizzing sound.

"Wake up, Spider-Man."

"I'm awake," I whisper hoarsely, blinking and trying to gauge my surroundings. Oh, god, where am I? _I remember..._

Nothing much. Just the apartment fire. On my way home - a huge migraine, and a memory lapse. There's darkness. My head droops...

"I'm talking to you. Wake UP," the man slaps me in the face. My head snaps one direction, causing the relentless pain in my shoulders to increase. The other arm had dislocated while I was unconscious. Now both pulled with unbearable agony.

I lift my head, suddenly angry at the entire situation. Ready to defend myself - to the death if necessary. I'm _seething._ Cornered like an animal and no way out that I can see... yet.

"There you are. Good evening, Spider-Man. Welcome to consciousness. This will likely be the first of several times we wake you up like this. How was it? Bucket of water in the face okay? Should I just stick with the slap next time?" A face leers into mine. "I'm new at this, but I drew a short straw."

I've never seen this man before. I give him a once over. The badge I saw briefly before is now tucked away in a pocket. He's still wearing some sort of vest - bullet proof, maybe. Slacks and shoes. Disheveled blondish hair, slicked back. Nothing out of the ordinary. No one you would take a second glance at on the street and think _ooh, what a creepy guy!_

He looks totally normal.

"Who..." I whisper. "Who... are... you?"

"We've met before. Remember? I gave you a lift. Involuntarily."

I bend my head and look down, quietly trying to breathe. I don't remember getting a lift from anyone? Maybe he is just... being sarcastic?

"I don't..." I can barely breathe. "I... I don't."

"That'll happen sometimes - a gap. It'll come to you momentarily. Or maybe never?! I don't know. Either way - it's you and me now. And we need to have a chat."

Suddenly I'm more scared than I have ever been in my life. Not scared of pain, necessarily - scared this will be the last time I feel anything at all. _I don't want to die._

"I've never been the type of guy to hurt people," he says, "But then again, I am really not opposed to sticking a bug with a pin to the wall."

"I'm not scared of you," I lie, looking up at him again.

He picks up a screwdriver. "We'll see."

He presses the screwdriver at the seam of my mask. _No no no no..._

He uses it to peel it up, then pulls the rest of it off.

I'm exposed - he is looking at my face. He bends down and looks at my face with an expression of pure excitement, which swiftly fades into confusion and disappointment. Then begins to laugh hysterically.

"I thought - I thought I'd know you." He slaps his forehead. "I've been watching too many hero movies. I _seriously_ thought there was going to be this big AHA moment! The big reveal! Pull the mask off and see the bug underneath! But - but you're a nobody?!" He bends down and looks at me again. "I've _never_ seen you before. I half expected you to be some playboy gracing the covers of the tabloids, you know, boy-band singer by day, masked vigilante at night. Someone I'd recognize." He drops my mask on the floor and steps on it, grinding his heel back and forth until he can hear the mechanisms crunch and the lenses shatter.

"The electromagnetic damage wears off after awhile," he admits with a shrug. "Can't take any chances with whatever hardware you've got hiding around."

 _Poor Karen,_ I think, hazily. But if the effect of the white blast wears off... maybe I can still connect with her... and...

He grasps my chin with his fingers and moves my face from side to side. "My god. You're literally a nobody. A _young_ nobody. A kid amongst thousands. Jesus Christ. This is f*cking hilarious."

I jerk my chin out of his hands, the pain wrenching through my arms as I do so. I look away, my lip quivering, trying very hard not to cry.

"I'm not really opposed to hurting kids, you see," he explains, as if it's supposed to make me feel better. "It's the job." He used the screwdriver to suddenly jab at my injured shoulders.

I'm in too much pain to even scream, a hoarse sort of yell bubbles up out of my mouth and my body twitches, aching to escape, spider-sense blaring all over the place, the sensory overload of _DANGER DANGER DANGER..._

"Okay, okay, okay, okay..." I cry, my mouth dry. "What do you want?"

"I need to find out what makes you tick, is all."

He pulls up my sleeve. I can do nothing but flinch when he scrapes the sharpened screwdriver across my forearm, watching with dissatisfied interest when the skin opens up like normal skin would and starts bleeding profusely.

"Huh," he says, "Interesting."

He looks up at me with a look of surprise. "Oh, shit," he says apologetically, "You probably think I am some sort of psycho, don't you? God, what this must _look_ like. Ugh. I am sorry. It's not supposed to be that way. I just needed to check. There's a lot of people out there who are interested in what makes you spin."

"Psycho or not... That's... not... how... you're supposed to use... screwdrivers," I snark angrily. "They're not even... supposed... to be that... sharp." He'd literally have to _take_ the time to sharpen it himself. When he could have just used a... sharper tool? Even _I've_ seen enough movies to know what devices to _not_ use in torture. What the hell is wrong with this guy?

"It's... weird," I finish lamely.

"Careful what you wish for," he replies in a sing song voice.

 _Shit. You're an idiot, Spider-Man._

He walks back to his work station, fiddling around with something in a tool box. Fishes out a sharp knife. Four inch blade, slides effortlessly out of a black handle.

...

...

AVENGERS FACILITY

...

...

I pause the video... I know what's coming next. I remember. I'm not prepared for it.

I grab the waste basket and dry heave into it, over and over again. There's nothing more to vomit. I've only eaten a little bit of candy and jello today. I lost all of it already.

 _I can't do this,_ I think. _But I have to do this._

"Damn it," I whisper, thrusting the waste basket violently under the desk again. I sit up, take a deep breath, and click play again. I will get through this if it kills me. Because... it didn't. I need to get a hold of myself.

...

...

TUESDAY NIGHT

...

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"H-hey," I say, inappropriately chipper. "Wh-what do y-y-ou plan on doing with that th-th-thing? Cut a cake?"

"Cut a spider," he responds flatly, not taking my humor too well. Truth is I'm not taking it so well either. My brain is screaming _What the actual hell, dude? Shut up. He's about to kill you. Don't make him mad!_ "Anything you'd like to tell me?" he asks, in a pleasant voice. "You know, what's about to happen next doesn't necessarily _have_ to happen."

"Tell you?" I repeat, parrot like.

"Yeah... like... your name."

"No."

"You sure?" he flips the knife a few times in his hand.

"Yes," I say, my voice shaking. _Am I being brave right now? Or being an idiot?_

"You sure you've got nothing to say," he asks again. "You positive?"

"I'm actually feeling a little negative," I reply too fast to think it through. I bite my lip to keep myself from spontaneously smiling like an idiot and look away. _Seriously, Spider-Man, shut the hell up. Unless you want that quote on your headstone._

 _HERE LIES SPIDER MAN... FEELING A LITTLE NEGATIVE!_

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Author's Note: AGH my poor Peter, I'm so mean to him. I had to end on the humorous note though, we're in dark times my friends. I realized this storytelling style is sort of a 13 Reason Why sort of style? Which I totally do NOT recommend that show. At all. If you think this is dark, that's a million times darker. But yeah, the present/flashback thing really feels similar to that!

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Quiz ANSWERS! OK, I loved your favorites. Bucky, Peter, Bruce Banner, Dad!Tony, and Black Widow all got some love. As far as my favorites go... it's super hard to choose amongst so many. I'd say my #1 has always been Spider-Man ever since I was introduced to the original comics at a young age. I've loved every Spider-Man movie made (except #3 in the original trilogy. It was odd). I think my next favorites are Black Panther, Daredevil, Star Lord, Black Widow, Peggy Carter, Bucky, Captain, Fitzsimmons, Agent Coulson, Tony Stark, and... crap that's like so many. I can't choose HALP

(I also am completely obsessed with Wonder Woman but she ain't Marvel lol)

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Next Quiz Time - What are YOUR super moments? Weird little moments of super-human ability you just can't explain? Could be you, or a friend! If you need some examples, you can read mine below ;)

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Personal Spider-Man story + BONUS story!

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Guys I actually remembered TWO Spider-Man stories! Haha! So you get both. From the vault of my childhood, and my post-college pre-cancer adolescence.

So the first one I was about thirteen or fourteen and I was hanging out with some friends. I was lounging in this armchair watching some friends by the computer watch dumb cat videos and I heard my friend Andy at my back/left (at the other end of the living room) yell "HEADS UP!"

Without looking first at all I simply held my hand out and calmly caught a very fast-moving tennis ball in my hand that had been FLYING TOWARDS THE SIDE OF MY HEAD and I had no freaking idea. I hadn't seen it in my peripheral vision. I didn't know Andy was tossing a ball around by the entrance to the kitchen. I just caught it in midair without even reacting to Andy's shout of warning or anything. So now I have this ball in my hand and slowly turned and look towards the back of the room and Andy is standing there with his mouth hanging open. My mouth drop opens too and I'm like " _I'm a superhero?"_

And Andy starts screaming "HOW DID YOU DO THAT? WHAT THE HECK?!"

It was hilarious. Definitely have never had that type of handi-coordination ever again. As in, I-got-knocked-out-during-dodgeball-in-high-school-PE type of coordination. Never again. lol

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Story 2! So if the first one was spider-sense this one is super strength!

I used to work at an elder residential facility (like, a nursing home) as a server in the dining room. The dining room was full of these heavy wooden dining tables that sat four people and had glass tops. (about four feet wide at the middle or a little more, I should think.)

I couldn't move these tables in the best of times, if there was ever an event I would have to shift the tables inch by inch, by pushing it, without it ever leaving the floor. There was one table in the middle where the three same old ladies sat every day along one side and argued with each other. (I don't know why they sat together, they just fought constantly, lol).

(I'm thinking at this point I should note that I am a small person about 5 foot nothing and weighed 112 pounds at the time of this story, never worked out regularly and was pretty sickly all the time. Sorta relevant.)

One time another elderly lady came zipping into the dining room in her electric wheelchair/scooter thing going WAY too fast indoors. She ran her scooter STRAIGHT into this table. She knocked it off it's balance so that it was actually leaning sideways, preventing only from falling over completely because it landed on the frail laps of these poor old ladies, who all starting screaming frantically because it's hurting their legs and they're too weak to push it off them. All the dinnerware and cups slid off onto the floor and spilled. One of them was literally just shrieking "Help! Help! Help!"

So I was standing sort of nearby and saw it happen and I guess my adrenaline kicked in because before I even knew what I was doing, I had leapt across the aisle, grabbed the edges of the table with my hands, lifted it up off the floor, and brought it down a few inches over. Then all the caregivers caught up and started checking to make sure the ladies weren't injured. One of them looked like me like "What the actual heck? How did you lift that?" and I'm like... dude... I have no idea. One of the caregivers was like "wow, you must be really strong!" and I'm like BUT DUDE I AM NOT I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS JUST HAPPENED!

One of the little old ladies looked up at me with starry eyes and literally was like "YOU SAVED US!" and my heart burst into a million pieces.

anyways that ended up being WAY too long lol! Those are my SUPER MOMENTS!

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also pretty random BUT I messaged my grandma in Texas to make sure she was doing okay with the hurricane. She said that in her end of the state it's been a blessing to have rain instead of heat, but we need to remember to pray for the victims of flooding. I thought that was so sweet. Prayers for those affected by floodwaters! If any of you are in Texas I'm thinking of you!


	20. Biology

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A/N: Guys I stayed up till 1:45 AM on a WORK NIGHT to write this chapter. I can't believe it, so dumb of me. I need my sleep. But technically it wasn't entirely a voluntary decision. I was trying to write and then saw this BIG ASS NASTY spider crawling up the wall by my bed. Then my darling cat booped it with her nose and knocked it onto the floor and it went UNDER MY BED AND DISAPPEARED. I don't know where it went which means I MAY JUST NEVER SLEEP AGAIN. I spent 40 minutes looking for it. It gone. It gooooOOOOnnne.

For as much as I love Spider-Man I really, truly hate spiders and want them ALL TO DIE. :(

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TUESDAY NIGHT

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The officer paces in front of me, once to the left, and then to the right, not taking his eyes off me the whole time. It's uncomfortable.

"All right, so, Spider-Guy has a sense of humor. Not helpful." His smirk disappears and is replaced by a horrible expression. He leans down into my face again.

"Your name," he repeats.

"Yours first," I snap.

He shrugs. "Unless your fancy suit can take pictures of my face, then you know I'm just going to disappear. I'm a shadow. You don't get the benefit of my name."

 _DO I have pictures of his face? Wouldn't the baby monitor program quit after the magnet blast? Unless it can still record because the force effects the wiring but not the data stream?_

 _If Karen's not connected how can I expect the video feed to work? There's nothing there._

 _I'm done._

 _Let's do this, asshole._

"Well, then," I reply sarcastically, "Likewise, Officer."

"Fine," he says. "We'll do it the hard way then." He looks down at the knife, and then suddenly slashes at my chest, a criss cross motion. Some pieces of the torn suit falls away at the slashed edges, tiny little wires all feeding into the crazy programs making staticky popping noises. The sleeves and neck are still mostly in place. My abdomen is already sticky with blood from the lacerations caused from getting shot by the blast of energy the first time, now freshly bleeding again with the knife cuts.

I grit my teeth and try not to make a sound. Maybe a slight whimper escapes. I grimace and squeeze my eyes shut. _Don't think about it. Think about anything else. The Avengers. Liz. Michelle. School. Aunt May. Ned. Ned's death star. Star Wars. Heroes. Han Solo. Han Solo gets tortured by Darth Vader and Boba Fett. Maybe it felt like this. This hurts... a lot. Ouch ouch ouch..._

"Ow," it practically falls out of me, in a tight voice. " _Shit."_

"Yeah, yeah, _shit_ is right," he responds. "There's a whole lot of shit for you if you don't gimme something."

I only stare at the knife. I don't answer. I bite my lip and try to turn my head. I can feel the pains in my shoulders lessen. Even still pulled at the wrong angle, the accelerated speed of healing is trying to kick in. I no longer feel as if the muscles in my chest and shoulders will cause me to suffocate. They're still dislocated... I think. I don't know that I'd notice if they move back into place, if it's only one small reprieve and I'm too busy feeling horrible somewhere else. I'm trying to hold myself up now, but if I were to relax my knees, I know they'd restrain.

"So what the hell is your deal?" the man asks. "I just flayed open your chest like a frog dissection in biology class and you start meditating?" He walks around the the back towards the stairs, looking at the back of my head. I feel his hand start looking through my hair like a concerned mother-figure on the first day of kindergarten looking for lice. "Where's the f*ck is that nice little headwound you had back here?" he asks.

"I w-w-ould shrug," I respond, "But I'm a little tied up right now."

"All right, you little asshole," the man walks back around and faces me. "So - what - you've got like a Devil thing going on?"

"Devil?" I ask blearily.

"You know, the Devil. of Hell's Kitchen. Sort of a... ongoing nemesis."

"I don't know who that is."

"Well, he never seems to die, for one thing. I myself have taken a shot at him once or twice. Thought I hit him, too. There's a few of us who know we've injured him in one way or another and he just keeps crawling back. What is it with you boys in tight red costumes?"

I don't answer. _Don't be sarcastic, it makes things worse._

"Maybe because the boys in blue just aren't very trustworthy right now," I respond.

If I could kick myself in the face at this point, I probably would.

"Ha... ha. Yeah. I'll give you that one. Okay! Next!" he kneels down and with a grunt of force, drives the knife down into the bridge of my foot.

There's a delayed reaction on my part; my body reacts with a sort of flail, and at first I don't feel any pain. Then the sharp, burning begins, and the shock begins to set in. My ears begin to ring and my brain goes sort of fuzzy. I shake my head back and forth, and I'm letting out an incoherent shout of agony.

He yanks the knife back up and looks at me again. "Let's just see how long this takes to heal, huh?" he says. "On a scale of one to ten, does that - hurt you as much as it hurts anyone else?"

My head is starting to feel heavy, and my equilibrium is starting to shift balance. I'm almost too aware of it to be dizzy; but I know it's coming.

"What do _you_ think?" I growl in response. The room is beginning to rock back and forth.

"I'm sure it'd be interesting to my friends if they knew just how much you can stand before you turn out like a little light. Toomes's weapons had a _seriously_ lackluster effect on you. The most temporary response I've ever seen. Now a knife injury. Why don't we try a broken bone?"

I shake my head. He doesn't seem to realize that the metal cuffs already broke both wrists, and that both were already quickly on the mend.

"P-p-please, don't do this. I just... I'm..." my hearing is really off at this point, pressure coming in and out like something in dubstep. "I j-ju-just w-w-want to go h-h-h-ome."

"Where might that be?" he asks.

My head droops, too heavy to lift any longer.

He grabs where my hand is sticking out of the edge of the vice and yanks on my pinky finger, and with a snap, it breaks. The pain shoots up my hand, arm, like a white alarm system clanging loudly in my brain. I can't shut it off, and I can't focus outside of it. The spidey-sense at this point is working so over time that it sounds as if there's a whole crowd of white noise screaming indecipherable things at me, flashing on and off, flickering hot with lightening.

I'm overwhelmed by it.

"S-stop," I moan. "S-stop. Please. Don't."

He breaks another finger. My ring finger. "Or what?"

I try to scream but it just comes out in a hoarse croak. It's just so... _gross_ at this point. He's not going to stop. I'm going to die. It's as simple as that.

"Come on, stop me. With words." He reaches for my middle finger. "Anything will do."

"I don't... know... what..."

"So you won't tell me your name yet? Why not start with something a little smaller? What are the Avengers up to nowadays?"

"I think some of them are in p-p-prison," I blab, not even knowing if its accurate, and completely not caring. "They're awol. I don't know. I can't tell you what I don't know."

"What about Mr. Stark? What is he up to?"

"I don't know!"

"Seems like you've been pretty cozy lately. I heard about the ferry."

"But that doesn't mean I know what he's doing! He does his own thing!"

"Like communicate with you regularly?"

"No, actually, not really! Not enough!"

"Where is he staying? The top secret Avengers facility? Stark Tower that no longer has his name on the side? Back to LA?"

"I DON'T KNOW WHERE IRON MAN IS," I shout.

 _All I know is that he isn't here._

"But you've been to the Avengers complex."

"I- I don't - know..."

"Wrong answer. Yes or no. If you were better at lying you'd be able to just say NO."

I shake my head again, trying to somehow gather my bearings. The rapid fire questions are almost setting of my spider-sense as much as a blade, a bullet, or flying shrapnel. I can feel my body trying to give in to the shock and pass out. My heart is beating rapidly, my blood pressure dropping. My skin feels clammy. The bleeding from my chest is slowing and becoming dry. I feel chills racing up and down my spine. Only the knife injury in my foot and my fingers are on fire and slowly burning me alive.

My head falls to my chest and my whole body shudders. My vision blinks and begins to grow dark at the edges like a vintage photograph.

 _I've always liked photography,_ I think blearily. _If I ever get out of this. I should try it._

"Don't pass out on me yet," the officer urges. "We ain't done here."

I try to say something snarky, and all that comes out are slurred words. "Lehk I canna jest deci...tha..."

"Here," he says, "Something for the road." He breaks my middle finger and I'm

out

like a light.

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AVENGERS FACILITY

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[Pause]

 _Shit._ I'm nearly caught up to the point where my memory is clearer. A lot of this blended together and I didn't remember some of it. Why the hell was I trying so hard to be funny? Who was I going to impress? Why didn't this asshole have a list of things he needed from me? He seemed to change his mind back and forth about what he wanted. Was it information about Spider Man? How long I took to heal, and where I lived? Or was it about the Avengers and where _they_ lived? Was this really for some criminal organization, or for his own morbid curiosity? Especially if he couldn't seem to decide one way or the other what he wanted to know the most?

His inconsistency made him more frightening. I never knew what he was going to do next or where his questions would go. I had no idea what he really wanted, which meant everything I said, or didn't say, was somehow wrong and he only hurt me more.

I suppress a shudder of fear running through me. _He can't hurt me anymore._

I need a break.

I stand up from the desk. I flex my bruised shoulders. I test my wrist movement. It's all... okay. Sore, and creaky. I feel like I got ran over by a truck multiple times, or like how one might feel after a bad fall. Not hours of torture. Certainly not with multiple broken bones. But I guess they're not technically broken any more, are they?

I sit back down again and pull off my sock. Yes, I wandered the Avengers facility in the middle of the night in socks. What else would a teenager stuck in a super-secret-hero-hospital do?

There's a dark scab on the bridge of my foot, and yellow bruising all around it. It's tender to the touch but I didn't feel it at all while I was walking.

So how am I supposed to take a break? I didn't see any vending machines on my way in... not that I really have an appetite right now, anyway. The only one I know about is back near the entrance of the hospital floor, where a certain Aunt May might be sleeping, or sitting up and pissed off that I'm missing. I certainly hope it's not the latter.

I stand up again and glance into the garbage can. Hm. It's full of my vomit. Great. Unless I'd _like_ to leave my DNA all over the place for the worker to find and then report to his manager who also receives a suspicious email about someone accessing the same work station who reports to _his_ manager who then reports to Mr. Stark and... well, I'm caught anyway.

I remove the bag from the bin and tie off the top. Then I move to the next work station, find another bag. It's full of... candy wrappers. Sweet tooth. I pick it up and tie it off. Then I move to the next one... a garbage full of paper. Come on, haven't you ever heard of recycling, people?

Before I know it I've emptied every trash can in the room and I'm carrying around about ten small bags in each hand. I use my foot to bump the door open and walk quietly down the hall, till I find a small office labeled housekeeping and maintenance. I put the bags near the housekeeping cart inside and find a small pad of paper with cleaning supply lists on it. I leave a note to explain why there's twenty bags of garbage waiting for whichever poor housekeeper I just dumped this on.

"Sorry, cleaning ladies, er, gentlemen..." I whisper, shutting the door behind me. I trudge sorely back down the hall, counting the doors till I reach five down. I use Happy's badge and slip back inside.

Break time over. I walk back to the desk and glance over at the windows along the side, catching a glimpse of my reflection for the first time since being rescued.

 _What the actual hell?_

It occurs to me there is no mirror in the tiny bathroom of my hospital room. I'm wondering if that was done on purpose.

I look absolutely _horrific._ I can't believe Aunt May was able to keep herself as composed as she was. My entire face is blotchy with yellow and purple bruising, mostly the entire nose, up the forehead, and across my cheeks. There's dark red lines under my eyes - broken nose, of course. There's dried scabs giving me stripes on my lower lips from the times they split. My eyes are a grayish purple on the upper lids, and still swollen, too. If _this_ is what I look like after a full day, I can't even imagine the shit-show I looked like when I came in. No one at school is going to believe I had the _flu_ if this doesn't go away quickly enough. I try to imagine how that conversation would even sound.

"What happened to you?" Michelle would ask.

"Flu," I'd reply.

"Yeah right," she'd reply in a monotone.

"Well, you see, what, I meant to say - I was - "

"Yeah," she'd repeat, "Don't care." And then she'd smirk.

I shook my head. What am I doing?

It doesn't matter what Michelle would say. What would _Liz_ say?

The Spider-Man part of me... the humorous and sarcastic and quippy version of myself... seems to suggest; _Well, Liz is in Oregon now, so, maybe just consider what Michelle would say instead...? She's pretty. And funny. And smart. And your friend._ Maybe she wouldn't say 'don't care.' Maybe she would care, and she'd ask me how I'm feeling. If there's anything I'd like to confide in her.

I shake my head. Great, now Peter Parker and Spider-Man are having disagreements over which girl to think about. I have some serious issues.

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Author's Note: you guys sent me some SERIOUSLY awesome super-hero stories and faves. I don't have time to respond to them now but expect personalized replies with my NEXT post! If you still have your own "super hero" moments to share, please do! I'll respond to them with chapter 21!

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Next Quiz Time - What would you guys think about the story continuing after things conclude with the abduction and recovery? I planted some "seeds" in earlier chapters that I would like to use later on, and I think it would just make sense for the story to keep going. I have some anxiety about "ending" this story and starting a new one and possibly losing readers or followers. Would it be weird to shift gears and start part II within the same "book" technically? I still sort of feel like this almost feels like a series of oneshots, so it could work... let me know what you think!

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I started an instagram account just for nerdiness and fan fiction and live streaming while writing and dungeons and dragons and memes and Hamilton and my obsession with all things Marvel and stuff... you can find me at pippin_strange


	21. One Flew Over the Spider's Web

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A/N: The spider was waiting for me on my wall tonight when I got home from work. Thanks to a vacuum it is now resting in the eternal web in the afterlife. So callous of me... -_- I will sleep easier tonight.

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AVENGERS FACILITY

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I sit back at the desk and skip ahead a few frames. I had passed out immediately after he broke my middle finger. My head stays completely limp and my body sags for several minutes. It's almost scarier watching this in fast-forward, seeing the man pace around the room, waiting for me to wake up. He replaces his badge back onto his vest, albeit its dirty and there's no recognition of the badge number from the system, it's too blurry.

I watch him re-cut open the same wounds on my chest _while_ I'm unconscious, and then watches them bleed like some sort of creepy vampire who just happens to be hydrated already.

What's the point of that? I'm not going to _tell_ him anything if I'm passed out! It was literally just to be a sadist. I flinch, and nothing more. I don't wake up. I can tell from his movements he's getting nervous - pacing more. He checks my pulse at my neck. He even leaves the line of vision for a moment, checking the base of the stairs. He has no idea that a tiny camera, undamaged by the knife, sits near my collarbone and is watching his every move. He has _no_ idea that Karen is slowly coming back online, self-replicating repair at work where her own systems are attempting to override the damage done by the blast. My AI is busy searching for working circuits to bypass the crushed hardware to find another place within the suit to re-connect the audio. My AI is so smart... it's scary.

I steady my breathing. _You're in the Avengers facility. You're safe._ I press play again. Nearly finished.

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TUESDAY NIGHT

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He tosses water on me again, and I cough and my head jerks up. "You left me for a moment," the man shouts in my face. "Come back, come back. More to discuss."

I spit water out and let out a noise of anguish. _Everything hurts._

"We'll table our last topic. Coming back full circle for a moment. I want your name, now."

My chest hurts so badly that I can't think straight.

"What's your name? Tell me your name."

My biggest mistake is not telling him _no._ I couldn't snark at him this time like I did before. The fight was gone. If I could just manage one, sarcastic little NO, I might have been able to hold out. But I didn't allow myself to think that far. I can't say it.

Which by default, it's somehow admitting to myself that I won't be able to keep my secret after all.

He grabs his screwdriver again and jams it against my cheek, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make panic flare up, spider-senses going off like strobe lights, so bright and confusing I can't concentrate. He slides it up my face and presses it into the corner of my eye, and slowly begins to press it in.

"No, no, no," I try to struggle, feeling the re-strain of my shoulders from too much movement. _Shit._ I'm pretty sure I could heal and maybe _not_ get an infected eye-socket, but I don't think I can regrow an eye. I'm pretty damn sure that's something my super-healing could _not_ do.

"You don't need an eye, do you?" he growls. "What happens if you lose them both? Think a blind hero can walk around doing the shit you do? The answer is definitely no."

 _I can't do this anymore._

"What happens if I shove this into your brain?" He says. My eyes are squeezed shut and I am still struggling, somehow, to try and pull my face away - but he's relentless - he presses harder. It's starting to hurt. I didn't think he'd break my fingers - what makes me think he'd stop at gouging out my eye and plunging this into my head?

 _"what happens, huh?"_ He screams.

 _I die,_ I think. My moment of shame, of cowardice. I'd rather give up my real name than die. And it's not just my name, it's Aunt May's name. And I fail her... here and now.

"Peter," I whisper, my voice so hoarse it barely comes out.

"Peter WHAT?"

"P-parker. Parker."

He drops my chin back to my chest and releases the pressure of the screwdriver. I heave slightly, and then puke on the cement floor. It splatters against his shoes and he lets out a yelp of surprise. He makes a disgusted face in my direction and tries to rub his shoe at an awkward angle on the ground to wipe it off.

" _Great,_ " he says sarcastically. "Spandex heroes blowing chunks and a name that I could've picked out of the top ten baby names of every decade. You might as well be John Smith." He pauses and laughs suddenly. "You'll at least be a John Doe. _Maybe._ Unless I get what I need."

My brain flickers in a tiny, blissful echo of hope. Unless what, though? Didn't he need my name?

"Let's try this," he rolls up his sleeves, puts his screwdriver away. He winds up and punches me hard in the face. My head snaps back at the neck, fresh blood pouring from both nostrils and the bridge of my nose swiftly turning dark red with bruising. _Broken nose._ Then he punches from both sides, left then right, my head snapping from side to side. The heat of bruising begins to throb, my head spinning with dizziness. _Definitely a concussion at this point._

The guy packs a swift, and deadly punch. He could have been a boxer. He could have been...

I've already been through too much at this point, and I'd barely woken up to begin with. He delivers one final blow to the chin, and I'm knocked out cold.

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AVENGERS FACILITY

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I pressed through the next few frames - I was out for a much longer time. After the final knock out, as it were, he woke me up by waiting it out. This is when my memory is the clearest. I remember what happens at this point - too well.

He told me that he wasn't going to kill me even though I saw his face. It was relieving... in a way. But then he told me that there was nothing I could do to fight him. He would just out my secret identity. Then he broke my fourth, and final, finger, luckily left the thumb alone, and didn't break the fingers of my left hand like he threatened he would. And I spilled my guts on whatever I _thought_ I knew about the Avengers facility... like a wuss.

And then Karen came back online... and he stomped off in search of the source, not realizing it was coming partially from my suit. He came back and stabbed me in between the ribs. Then he checked my phone, released me from the machines, mocked my healing ability, and then left me alone. _Alone._

I sat back and left the video on pause. I just fast-forwarded through my clearest memories.

The _whole_ sequence, with pauses and gaps and moments of unconsciousness and the times spend of me just crying and screaming while he stood by and waited for me to calm down... the whole thing had lasted through Tuesday night and into Wednesday morning. Sometime after midnight. And that's when my memory grows fuzzy again.

The pain relievers are worn off, and I feel a flare of pain beginning in my ribs. I involuntarily press a hand to my side, lifting up my T-shirt to check the gauze covering the wound. I'm not connected to an IV anymore, so no spontaneous button-tapping drug to flood my system at this point. At least that stuff is strong enough to have an effect. At home, I have to take, like, eight or ten aspirin to have any positive results for something as simple as a headache. My tolerance is sorta high.

Suddenly, I feel homesick. Even homesick for school, to a point. Aside from being a sort of nerdy dweeb that gets picked on... I like learning. I like science, a lot. And I swore if I got out of this situation alive I'd try photography - isn't there a yearbook class I could try next year?

I'm homesick for my friends. I want to just go back to last month, things were simpler. No one knew my secret. Ned and I would binge Star Wars or Black Cape or something and eat junk food and hang out. Then after he'd go home I'd say g'night to Aunt May and sneak out my bedroom window to do a little old-fashioned crime fighting. Nothing... nothing followed me home, then. It was just me swinging around at night on the street stopping muggings and walking people home and catching hit'n'runs. Once I stopped a guy from speeding through a school zone. I webbed his car and pulled him back and made him drive through again at the right speed...

I chuckle. And make a decision. Either I can... put this away, now, and go back to sleep. Go home tomorrow. Go back to school later. Try to forget the whole thing, and let the memories come back naturally... or, not at all. And maybe if they don't it's meant to be.

After all, whatever happened, happened, already, right? The important thing is I ended up _here_ and not dead in some underground garage.

Or I can stay up even later and keep watching. Once the officer heard Karen trying to send a distress call, he ran back to my mask and stomped the life out of it, again, in a panic. _Still_ didn't discontinue the baby monitor program.

"I don't need this," I say out loud. I stand up from the desk and walk dejectedly towards the door. I don't. I'm okay with not knowing. I remember the _feelings_ of being unconscious, I remember crawling out of the garage. I remember... talking. I think. Or calling for help. _Something_ like that. But it doesn't matter...

"Who the hell am I _kidding?"_ I whisper, turning around and marching right back to the computer.

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TUESDAY NIGHT

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"Great," he says sarcastically. "See ya around, Spider-Man."

He stomps off into the darkness of the garage. He aims for the stairs. After a few moments of agonizing silence of me being unable to move, I hear the whine of his car as he put it in reverse, the brakes letting out a painfully high-pitched squeal any time he taps them to slow down.

With a growl, the car is back in the street and disappearing into the darkness of the night - night? Or morning?

I have no sense of time at this point.

"Aunt May," I whisper brokenly. I think about how upset and worried she was going to be, and it just turned into a whimper of her name. Not that I ever wanted to know what it felt like, but apparently a few hours of torture and I just want to be comforted by a maternal figure who provides shelter and clothes and food and takes care of me and loves me more than life. So sue me.

I need to call for help - but the phone is fried. Karen, for all I know, is also fried, after a long fight. I'm alone. But I _need_ help. I know I'm not okay.

To summarize the current situation; broken nose, four broken fingers, lacerations to the forearms, chest, and neck, stab wounds in the ribs and foot. On the mend: dislocated shoulders and broken wrists and...

broken web shooters?

The web shooters are a little closer to the palm of my hand than where the weird gauntlet-cuff magnets placed the most pressure. The vices had probably done the worst of it.

Curled up on the cement floor, still shivering, I hold my hand up to my face - the left hand, with all the working fingers.

I press the sensor with the two middle fingers per usual; nothing. Not even a spark or a sign of working technology.

 _Okay, have to do this the old fashioned way, then._

I roll over onto my side, crying aloud with the pain it pushes into my shoulders to do so. I brace myself on an elbow and slowly push myself to my knees.

For a moment I kneel there, the left hand holding myself from falling back onto the ground. Deep breaths - over and over. I had lost count as to how many times I had lost consciousness tonight. Five times? I don't know how bad that is - if were a type of situation if I had been drinking alcohol or were on drugs or something, that probably means my body is shutting down. But if it's from multiple concussions and just feeling dizzy with pain... maybe it's _not_ deadly.

This is the first time tonight I managed to convince myself I might _not_ die.

"All right, Spider-idiot," I whisper to myself. I slide my right hand out a few feet, reaching carefully for my discarded mask. I hook my uninjured thumb through the opening, dragging it towards me. My elbow gives out for a moment, and I rest my forehead on the cool floor.

"Get up. Get out. Get help. Come on." I sit up again, pushing myself all the way off the floor so that I'm sitting back on my heels. This hurts far too much for my blood-covered foot, so I bite the bullet and use my left hand on the vice to pull myself to my feet, shouting hoarsely with pain. I try to hold my arm with the broken fingers up tight to my chest, keeping the mask with me. Though that leaves the stab wound in the side without any pressure.

But I'm standing - which that in itself feels like a small miracle.

I limp towards the stairs. Or, not even limp. My feet would have to leave the ground. I shuffle, sliding each foot in front of the other, slowly but surely, till I reach the bottom. I look up and groan deeply. It looks like a million miles to the top.

I take each step one at a time, both feet per step. _It's okay,_ I tell myself. Suddenly a random old Christmas song comes to mind, from a sort of creepy, puppet-oriented Rankin Bass film (you know, the Rudolph guys). The lyrics were oddly... fitting.

 _Put one foot in front of the other, and soon you'll be walkin' cross the flooOOOOooOOOOORRR! Put one foot in FRONT OooOOOF the other, and soon you'll be walkin' out the DoooOOOOORRR!_

I hummed slightly, trying to pin my focus on something other than the pains it took for any jarring movement, definitely not limited to each damn step.

I know at this point the only thing keeping me going is adrenaline, but it will wear off. And then what? I pass out for like a sixth or seventh time and die in an alleyway?

I get to the top step and sag against the wall. _I can do this._

Then I'm in the alley way, the cold of the night hitting me like a force. I can see my breath. I brace myself against the brick wall and slowly move towards the light of the streetlamp at the far end, lighting my way back to civilization.

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Author's note:

I have one more super-power story for you, and I definitely should have thought of this before but now it's TOO WEIRD not to take note of.

So I have always had this thing that I have a tendency to write stuff in my stories and then something happens later that mirrors it. One of my more... uh, "famous?" (but OLD) fan fictions "What Are You Gona Call Me? A Mary Sam?" was about a boy named Nathan "Nate" who was super clumsy and sandy haired and had ADHD and wore silly T-shirts and got into a crap ton of trouble (while bursting into song a lot) in Middle Earth. I started it when I was 15 I think. Then 4 years later I'm in college and I meet a boy named Nate. He's a friend of a friend. He has ADHD and he's sandy haired and incredibly clumsy and randomly bursts into song all the time.

One time he and I are just hanging out in a dorm lobby and we had this weird moment where I looked at him, and he looked at me, and he goes; "I feel like we've met before."

And I'm like "ME TOO."

"YOU TOO?"

"I have the SAME feeling! It's almost like... I don't know, like you're some lost cousin that I didn't know I had or something."

"Yeah, it's weird," he said. "I just have this feeling like we _know_ each other."

About twenty minutes later the light bulb came on, and I'm like, "Hey, Nathan?"

"Yeah?"

"This might sound weird, but I figured out why I feel like I know you."

"OMG HOW?"

"About four or five years ago I wrote a story about a character exactly like you."

"How was he like me?!"

"Well, his name was Nathan. He, uh, had your hair and eye color. Came from a small town. Has ADHD. And... sings a lot. And he's really clumsy and falls over a lot. I just realized that you're like... everything I wrote come to life."

He flipped out. "AND HIS NAME WAS NATHAN TOO?"

"Yeah!"

"AND YOU WROTE THIS FOUR YEARS AGO?"

"YEAH!"

Anyways, we had a mini freak out over it. Then he told people I wrote all about him before I knew him and I was a psychic. It was hilarious.

When I was writing my best fan fiction self-insert Strange Things Happen I wrote about getting a job on the galley of the Dawn Treader, right? Well, THREE YEARS LATER I end up getting a job in a kitchen and my coworker Jose is EXACTLY like "Tusk" from my story.

I wrote that other one about Shawn Spencer in Psych breaking his knees and then for 2 days both of my knees hurt so, so badly for absolutely no reason whatsoever (I hadn't fallen or anything!) But it literally felt like I had gotten a mallet to the knees too. Haha.

Then I wrote the story "Give me the Words" about Fitz in Agent of Shield in a coma, then dealing with his disabilities and having speaking issues after his brain injury. Then I go and get myself cancer and have chemo treatments which injures my freaking brain and the same freaking shit happens to me (not the coma part, but definite reoccurring moments of unconsciousness where my brain went through the same weird head-space of crazy imagery and sounds while OUT) And further issues when I try to speak and make myself clear. (for those of you Marvel fans enjoying Spider-Man, you might like that story too. I got into a LOT more detail of the weird similarities in that one). But yeah a lot that has to do with memory lapses (short term) and getting the right words out and developing weird verbal tics or snaps to get the right ones out. Oy vey. I went from just making all that crap up with my imagination to living it and then I was like... huh... well that's frighteningly accurate.

Then I even made a joke earlier to you guys about how me getting a week-long cold was karma for being mean to Peter, right?

WELL IT GETS BETTER

SO MUCH BETTER

So I wrote this earlier part of the chapter Tuesday night where the police officer starts punching Peter in the face and breaks his nose. No big deal, right? It's part of the story. He gets kidnapped and tortured - obviously the nose has to go!

THE BIG FINALE... Wednesday evening... I'm browsing twitter and I see a new post from TOM HOLLAND... yeah... SPIDER MAN HIMSELF.

He posts a twitter status and it simply states

"I broke my nose again. #chaoswalking"

THIS IS TOO MUCH AND I CAN'T EVEN HANDLE what the heck guys!? Like I don't believe I'm actually psychic I don't believe in that stuff BUT THIS KEEPS HAPPENING!

TOM HOLLAND BROKE HIS NOSE 24 HOURS AFTER I WROTE ABOUT SPIDER MAN BREAKING HIS NOSE

I need to write more romantic comedies, I think? It's just getting too weird lol

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Anyways, more responses (and more quiz time!) further along, keep scrolling...

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REVIEW RESPONSES! WOOHOO!

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ThatCrazyDaughterofHecate - Cool username! Thanks so much for the reviews!

Shoyzz - Thank you so much for the longer reviews, they give me LIFE! We're going to definitely have some more protective!Tony and comforting!Tony in the future. I like them too!

Badguthrie - Good news is, the spidery bastard was waiting for me when I got home from work today. So I sucked it up with a vacuum. Eheheh.

GoTeamSkipper - Dude your super power moments are totally awesome and not minor. It's epic. I love it. Thanks so much for your ongoing support! You've been around for awhile, it's nice to have someone stick around for so long :) and that story about your grandpa was absolutely incredible. I agree with your grandpa ;) I think God also gives humans crazy adrenaline rushes to do amazing things ! Either way so cool! :)

Queen of Crystallopia - AAAHH your reviews are just perfection in word form. Thank you as ever. I was also so happy you updated your story, I can't get enough of it. Hopefully we have more soon? Or is it technically over? Anyway I hope you do more stories in general. You're a good writer. And I am sorry you skipped making your lunch lol, I would just die if I didn't make my lunch the night before so I truly appreciate your sacrifice! XD You're amazing!

Girlwith100names - You are so wonderful! Thank you for your kind words! can't wait to keep sharing with you. If you have any more suggestions let me know :) I wonder if I can try and sneak Bucky in somehow. I am not sure how I can do it, I'll have to do a little research to see just how much time passed exactly between the end of the final battle w/ Iron Man and when he gets all frozen up in Wakanda... :)

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tune in next for:

HOW DOES PETER GET FROM THERE TO THE AVENGERS FACILITY?

DOES TONY FIND OUT HE HACKED THE COMPUTERS?

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN HE AND MAY GO HOME?

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Next Quiz Questions! These are so fun, I love feeling engaged with you guys. It's like a fun little community!

Quiz: What is one of your EARLIEST favorite fan fiction story? Like the earliest you can remember reading fan fiction and going... I LIKE this... ANOTHER! What was it called,if you can remember? Or who was it by, what was it about? Did it make you fall in love with fan fiction?

Mine has to be an old "Girl falls into Middle Earth and falls in love with Legolas" story I was reading when I was probably 13 or 14 and it was by a user named CaptainOblivious ... don't remember the title though lol. I just remember being totally obsessed with it. I also LOVED Serena Kenobi's Star Wars / X-Men crossovers. We're friends in real life now so I lucked out there :)

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ART LESSONS! INSTA!

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You can follow me on instagram pippin_strange. I'll be posting nerdy stuff (fan fiction, cosplay, writing, marvel, etc)

I am also going to start doing free drawing classes with my regular instagram, myapapaya_adventures, same sort of time, probably weeknights around 8:30 pm pacific standard time, I haven't picked a day yet but I wanted to offer free drawing lessons to anyone who is interested :) we should have drawing some fun things like: unicorns, horses, trees, leaves, mountains, Spider-Man, disney Princesses, other cartoon characters, that sort of thing!


	22. His Name Is

A/N 1: I am using the mobile app to upload a chapter for the first time and I have no idea how it works. If the formatting is off, that's why :)

A/N 2: I fixed a plot hole and made a few corrections. I apologize if it caused any confusion! Earlier I had indicated that the apartment fire was on Roosevelt Island, Manhattan. What it should have read was past Roosevelt Island. The apartment fire was located on the island of Manhattan, heading up northeast towards Harlem (not in Harlem necessarily, but on the way to it). I was trying to indicate how Peter was navigating from Queens to Manhattan (there's a bridge that goes over Roosevelt, and then another one up further north) and got a little lost in the idea of the cool history of Roosevelt island without indicating there's no apartments there that I can tell. Google maps is a wonderful thing. I've since gone back and fixed these moments and tried to make it more clear. I realized you'd need this correction prior to reading this chapter is the city-scape was going to make any sense! Thanks guys!

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AVENGERS FACILITY

THURSDAY MORNING

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The last frame remains frozen on the screen, the close up of the doctor's face in the emergency wing here at the complex.

One last image before he cut away the top of the suit to do surgery, and the last of the wires keeping anything in the camera at my collarbone in working order were severed.

I check the time - it's been about six hours or so. It's about three o'clock in the morning. I'm so overwhelmed with finally getting the full story that it leaves me exhausted, yet strangely unsatisfied, as if I had run a really hard marathon only to find out I arrived in the wrong city at someone else's finish line.

I distractedly tap the search options in the upper right of the screen, moving the circle to the side with my fingers and hovering over the one that had caught my eye early on. Facial recognition.

I tap SEARCH ALL and start working my way through hundreds of faces.

I see the woman from the apartment fire. She appears from a Facebook page. Her name is Kim.

A few of the firemen follow, from a variety of social media pages - Stephen, Chris, Lane, Bella, and Jeff, the one who thought I was the Hulk.

Jeff's picture comes up as a former member of Shield, low-level medical technician in a Boston location. There's a small tic mark next to his name - a checkmark to indicate there's further files on him, not just on the internet, but on the servers here at the facility. Out of curiosity, I click on it. Most of the information is redacted in black lines since I'm still on a guest account, but there's a note I can still read. It indicates that something called by the code-name Tumore deemed him "not a threat". He quit his job as the med tech at Shield to go join the fire program long before Shield went under, long the media lost its mind at some sort of Hydra corporate takeover. Interesting.

Another scrolls by; the paramedic who sat with me in the ambulance; for forty minutes exactly, he wasn't exaggerating about that at all. His name is Brian. If I move this window aside and check the frames again; I can see my earlier fears are unfounded. He never removed my mask or looked at my face, nor did he let anyone else try to. But it ended up not mattering in the long run - did it?

At one point, Stephen pops up in the background with his cellphone and tries to take a picture of me. Brian waves him off, then returns to watching me sleep, continuously checking my vitals, and every so often he gets on his phone and speaks with someone briefly, saying things like "Yeah, still running ground control here... yeah, no, you're going to have to send in the other county. We've still got a injury victim here that refused treatment. I'll explain when I get back. You know what, it's fine. I don't mind taking the heat for this one. Send the other county. We're going to be delayed here longer than we thought - okay? Tell the captain I'm making a call."

I shiver involuntarily. I'm freezing. Post ops are supposed to stay in bed and rest and use warm blankets and stay hydrated - I am doing none of those things. I promised the nurses that I would drink a lot of water whenever I woke up, on account that I was healing faster than most and did not, technically, need the hydration IV as long as I did my "due diligence".

I've been sitting here at a computer screen for hours... it's the least of diligences. Oops.

I press a hand to the wound in my side again, taking a deep breath. Still sore. It still feels like a strange, elastic sort of band running up through my injuries and into my chest tightens and expands with every breath, then deflates uncomfortably. There's no middle ground. Either the feeling of pain is going to snap and leave me spontaneously hemorrhaging or it feels too loose, like my bones are just going to fall out of my body and they're going to find a floppy bag of what's left of me...

Okay, I'm getting tired. That's morbid. I need more sleep. I just want junk food and my best friend and bad movies and then I want to crawl out on the roof and look at my Queens skyline. I need the fresh air in my lungs and the shapes of the gray buildings against a muted orange sky...

I scroll by another face. The homeless guy I spoke to in the alleyway. A sort of friendly, but hard guy, skin conditions indicating struggles with meth and alcohol addictions, but somewhere a big heart and a lack of context urged a kid in "fancy" pajamas to not take short cuts. I wonder if he saw me get abducted? Would he have called for help on my behalf? Would he even have leaned far enough out of the alleyway to see why the side of the building directly beside him suddenly was damaged by a huge blast of white energy? Or did the drugs just whisper in his ear and tell him to go to sleep, it's none of his business?

Facial recognition brings up a mug shot. His name is Terry. He's smiling dopily for his picture. Charges are... public drunkenness. One count of possession when he was a minor... over twenty years ago. He hadn't been caught doing drugs since - but it was obvious they still had a hold on his life.

There's a part of me that suddenly feels unjustly angry towards him. If there was any potential witness to what happened to me - someone who saw what happened and did nothing - I could have been spared some of this.

"Why didn't you help me?" I whisper at the double screen, disgustedly flicking away the window and pulling up the last.

Suddenly the face of the police officer fills the screen and I can't stop myself from flinching back. I use the toggle icon on the side and minimize the window slightly so he doesn't seem so freaking lifelike. He appears multiple times throughout the feed - obviously, most of them during our time spent in the garage.

But the first time his face is recognized by the program is at the scene of the apartment fire.

He's spotted - briefly - in the background. He looks towards the ambulance where I'm sitting up and talking to the paramedic, struggling with the oxygen mask. When I hop out of the ambulance, the feed catches him again once more.

He's sitting just past the caution tape, in his car. His face is completely passive as he watches me through the windshield. His expression doesn't change when the mother of the little girl throws her arms around me. And when I move -

so does he, the car pulling silently out of the traffic and into a side street, running parallel to the buildings I used for swinging away.

Breathe in,

breathe out.

Breathe in,

breathe out.

[click]

SOURCES

I pull open his ID page with the New York City police department. Hell's kitchen precinct. I don't think I'd be able to see this just using Google... but... Stark is resourceful. The Avengers more so, which means if I feel like finding the personal information on New York's finest right now, I can.

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WEDNESDAY MORNING

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I reach the end of the alleyway and try to get my bearings. I don't know how long I had slipped in and out of consciousness when the police office shoved me in the back of his car, so we could have been driving for any amount of time. I'm still clearly in New York but I have no idea which part - not from the ground, anyway. Even if I find a street sign at this point, I might not be able to identify it just by looking at it. Especially if it's something vague like Smith street or Green terrace. What's left of my phone is in melted pieces on the floor of the basement garage. My ability to find help feels directly linked to my ability to swing myself home - which at this point, I don't think I would survive. It's that simple.

I lean against the brick wall and check the wound in my side again. On a normal human, it likely would not have stopped bleeding from the time he stabbed me till now, I'd be going into septic shock and probably dead. But it had stopped bleeding not long after he stabbed me, giving me a considerable lucky shot.

Though taking the stairs from the garage caused it to begin freshly bleeding again, blood running warm and sticky down the side of the suit and leg. The pain of multiple injuries clamor so hard for attention I can't point out a single one that stands out above the rest. My chest, arms, foot, side, lungs, neck, shoulders, nose... Each throb at the same overheated, high-speed heartbeat.

I try to think back to the ride in the car. I was out of it then, too, so I wasn't exactly listening for any clues of travel - whether we heard a bridge rising or nearby landmarks. The city noises blend together. For all I know we could have gone back. Maybe he followed me for a long time. Maybe he spotted me at the fire and knew I would be moving slowly after...

There's a lot of noises coming from somewhere nearby. I'm so close my senses go into overdrive to try and distinguish between the sounds - there's an acrid smell of smoke in the air, heavy with charcoal and burnt plastic. Voices are calling out to one another. A siren echoes, a lonely wail contributing to the chaotic panic of a New Yorker's lullaby.

I'm back almost nearly where I started.

I'm two blocks from the apartments that were on fire. He had finally caught me closer to home and then circled back, taking me even closer to people who could help me - and yet the chaos of a city disaster would have drowned out any of my screams. The bad neighborhood turns a blind eye and ear to my distress. A situation where if an off-duty cop from Hell's Kitchen stood nearby - no one would think twice about it. None would be the wiser. He had already set up his torture-station in this neighborhood. Then the fire started, and he probably went over there to see for himself. Not because his friends in blue and yellow were helping others - but because he knew he might run into me there. How lucky for him. A fire starts so close to where he already planned to hurt me. He couldn't have planned it any better... Or maybe he did? Maybe he set the fire.

I'm fairly certain at this point he didn't want to get too close to me while I was unconscious in the back of the ambulance. He waited. He followed me part of the way home. Finally waited until I came down low enough for a good shot. And then he brought me back. He'd been stalking me the whole time. How dedicated.

I begin making my way slowly down the block. Just a few more steps, Spider-Man. Just make it past that telephone pole. Okay... now that stairwell. One more half-block. See that corner? Just make it around that corner, at least. Okay. Now you've made it past the corner - don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop.

I stop, bracing myself on one of those small, iron fences guarding a deep stairwell cutting underneath a building.

...Can't

catch

my

breath...

Shit.

Stay upright, I tell myself. That's the most important thing.

I can't breathe - something's wrong. Something's very wrong, I can feel it in my chest. Something's different. It's not painful, but it's not supposed to happen, whatever it is.

Each breath is a short little huff sound, enough to fill my mouth with a puff of air and nothing else. It doesn't feel the same as hyperventilating, but that's sort of what it is.

Each intake is a strange, whining sound. An exhale does - nothing, except make me feel vaguely claustrophobic.

I reach the street barrier. There's people milling about, on walkie talkies and cellphones, all aimed towards the fire and not looking at a shadowy figure approaching from a dead street at o'dark thirty in the morning.

I spot a familiar figure. Of all people, someone whose name I actually knew. The guy who was worried I'd turn into a giant green giant and go to town on Harlem like Dr. Banner did several years ago.

It's Jeff the fireman... ironically, smoking a cigarette outside of the police barrier. His face and arms are dark with soot. He looks withdrawn and exhausted. His jacket and helmet lay in an abandoned pile by his feet, the yellow jumpsuit pants held up by thick red suspenders. He's on a break, talking on his phone while he smokes.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he says. "It was a trip, huh? Yeah I'm outside of it now. Bummed a smoke from Harry. South side if you wanted to."

He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and looks down at me. It takes a moment for him to realize what he's seeing.

"Hey Brian," he says slowly, "I'm actually going to need you to come here ASAP. Someone needs help. Don't call anyone else. Now," he adds the last part, urgently, "Shit - man, get down here now. It's the Spider guy. Hurry."

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AVENGERS FACILITY

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His name is Casey Cooper.

He looks like such a unsuspecting guy. Shorter, but tough. Slicked back hair, sort of blondish. Square jaw. Ridiculously normal looking, yet vaguely threatening. But maybe he only looks that way because I have the benefit of knowing what he's like when someone worse than him hands him a sharp toy and an innocent victim in a dark underground garage.

He thought it was funny that I was just a kid. And went to work anyhow.

I'm done, I think. For real, this time. I feel... off. I haven't been drinking enough, I'm exhausted. I just relived my entire Tuesday night and early Wednesday morning over the course of the current Wednesday night... and I have to go home tomorrow. Or today, technically. It's now early Thursday morning. I don't have to go to school Friday, but I will need to next Monday. I am so behind on homework at this point, it's going to be unreal.

I desperately can't fall behind. Not if I want to get into a good...

college.

If I'm an Avenger by the time I graduate, how the hell am I going to get into a good science based university?

You won't need to worry about that, my brain logically steps in. You're poor. You can't afford college. Aunt May can't afford college either. You're going to be flipping burgers like the rest of them and night lighting as an Avenger.

I shrug it off. High school is far from over. I have time to plan ahead on that. Maybe get a part-time job and start earning some money. As what, though? Pizza delivery? Bike messenger?

I don't... have to flip burgers, right? I have... talents. I'm sure I do.

Talents that... aren't athletic in nature? Like. Filming stupid videos on my phone. Disappointing the people I make promises to. Okay... so what do I have that no one else has? Aside from the obvious... Spider-Man. But there's no way I can capitalize on that without giving myself away, or worse, signing the accords. Which I may never do. Not until it's declared officially illegal not to.

I begin undoing the work I've done. I erase user history. I run the whole program backwards to make sure each clip starts at the beginning should anyone else pull the feed. I leave the wires and the microchip exactly how and where I found it. I log out of the guest account and let the computer go back to the first mode. I don't know why I bother with the motions of making it look like I wasn't here - they're going to find out whether I like it or not.

If anything the janitors are going to know. I left them twenty trash bags. What was I thinking?

I sit back and look at the workstation. It looks normal.

I leave the IT room and make sure the lights are off and the indicator by the door panel is the right color. Then I quietly move down the hall, though at this point, stealth is almost entirely unnecessary.

I pop out into the earlier reception area where I originally hid under the desk when Happy walked by. There is no one stirring and the place is dead. Feels like a corporate setting for a zombie apocalypse - too empty, too quiet, and too clean. Something in the plot would come up to disrupt the serenity...

I hold Happy's badge loosely in my hand and wonder what I'm supposed to do with it now.

"You idiot," I whisper out loud, nearly slapping my forehead but thinking better of it last minute. Not with multiple concussions and a broken nose. How am I supposed to get his badge back to him without getting in major trouble and having Mr. Stark take away my suit again?

"Idiot, idiot, idiot," I mutter to myself. Aunt May was right. Teenagers really do screw up. I've screwed up. I didn't plan ahead and now - what the hell am I supposed to do? Shit. What am I supposed to do with this? Just leave it on the floor by the computer and pretend that he dropped it? Happy might buy it, second-guessing himself and thinking he just randomly lost his badge in a place he already looked in suspiciously before leaving.

Stark wouldn't, though. He trusts Happy more that Happy trusts Happy. He's going to know I had something to do with this either way.

"You're an asshole, Spider-Man," I say to myself in a frustrated huff. "You're going to get in so much trouble."

I make a few lefts and rights until I'm through the open lobby with the spacious windows, back to the other reception area for the hospital wing, past the eerie line of doors all open and empty and waiting for injured superheroes.

There's a dark lump by the door to my room, and my awareness heightens to a sort of shrill, careful observance.

It's Happy.

He's sitting in a chair pulled in from reception beside the door. His head is tilted back against the wall, his mouth open in a wide, soundless snore.

Why didn't he go home?

I'm realizing at this point he probably looked in on us and saw that I was gone and decided to wait till I came back. He probably realized his badge was missing, too, and put them together.

I'm such a jerk.

I look at him for a moment and decide I shouldn't wake him up. What would I say, anyhow? Sorry you've been sitting there for so many hours? Sorry I STOLE your high security badge? Of course, these are all things I should say... if I wasn't fifteen years old and a jackass.

I carefully reach down to the side of his jacket, and lift the lanyard sticking out of his belt. I reclip the badge back, and then let it fall harmlessly back against his leg.

He stirs slightly, closing his mouth and making a hmph sound as if he disapproves.

I do too, Happy. I do too.

I back away slowly, watching his movements. Until I'm positive he's not waking up, I go back into my room -

I trip on the gift basket by the foot of the bed, falling slightly into the side of the bed. It doesn't catch my weight like I thought it would - it's on wheels. My falling into the side of the bed shoves it four feet across the room, knocking over the deactivated IV stand, and and causing the most horrendous, crashing sound - as if Middle Town High marching band surprised me from the bathroom and clanged every brass instrument together at once.

I freeze in place, a cringe on my face. Here it is, Spider-Man! Your doom is at hand!

Aunt May and Happy both slam their hands on the light fixture simultaneously and the florescence flickers on.

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hope you guys enjoy :) sorry for the slow updates, I've been spending a lot of time working out at the gym (wonder woman and spider man didnt inspire that at ALL...) and drawing for the instagram stuff.

you know the drill, leave me lovely and delicious reviews!


	23. Saving Private Parker

An overdue chapter. Further explanations later. I am SO sorry!

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AVENGERS FACILITY

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The florescence buzzes on, painfully and artificially bright.

"Hey," I squeak.

"What's wrong?" May asks, her voice hoarse with sleep. Her eyes are so big Happy could drive the car through them. "Did you just... fall out of bed?"

"Aha, funny story - " I start to lie. Happy is giving me the _you are so_ _busted_ expression and crossing his arms over his chest. "I tripped on it and sort of fell over... but..."

"Are you okay?" May swings her legs out of the futon and rushes to my side. "Let's get you back into bed."

"No - I mean - I'm okay," I say hastily.

"What were you _doing?"_

"Just... going to the... bathroom," I say it so lamely, so noncommittal, it's pathetic.

"And then... what?" Happy interjects. "Started a construction project?"

"No!" I protest. "Just fell, very, very loudly."

"Do you feel faint or dizzy?" Aunt May asks confusedly.

"Aunt May, no, it's fine. I wasn't _falling_ falling. Tripping. It's dark."

Happy rolls his eyes so high it looks like he's doing a zombie impression. He knows I can see relatively well in the dark, even without superpowers. The room just wasn't dark enough, period, to justify _that_ excuse.

"Yeah, well, fine or not fine, you're still recovering, get back in bed," May points commandingly towards the bed. I tug it back away from where it crashed and start to walk towards the fallen IV stand.

"Nuh uh!" May adds. "I said get back in bed. _I'll_ fetch the very expensive medical equipment."

May moves the bed away from the wall by a foot or so, and angrily re-gestures in a way that says I'd better get back inside of it or else. Then she rights the IV stand. "I don't suppose it's insured?" she says, more to herself than me. She gives Happy a look that could wilt a bouquet. "Or maybe it looked just like this when we got here."

Happy shrugs. "Yeah, yeah, sure." Then he narrows his eyes. "Wait. No. Not at all. But it doesn't matter. No one cares if it's broken."

"No?"

"Trust me on this one."

"Why aren't you in bed yet?" May snaps at me.

Now she's being kind of unfair. My foot was still hanging out from under the blanket - which I quickly correct, pulling it under the covers like my life depends on it.

"I'm in bed," I say.

"Go to _sleep,"_ she amends. She waits until I've laid down carefully, pulling the blanket up around my shoulders. I'm shivering a little bit.

She goes over and turns on a small light on the nurses station where a monitor hangs out of the wall to check vitals and a small cabinet of supplies sit. It has a comforting, golden glow, instead of the sickly lemonade shade from the cold lights above.

May looks back at Happy. "Mr. Hogan, let's step out in the hall for a second," she says, a little softer around the edges. She and Happy step into the hall together, turning off the florescent lights on their way out.

...

...

WEDNESDAY MORNING

...

...

I slip to one knee, like I am bowing respectfully towards Jeff, the fireman with the strange habit of smoking an actual cigarette. "Can you - help - me," I choke out, unable to inhale enough. I put a hand to my slashed, bloodied chest to feel my heart racing.

In an impressively short millisecond, Jeff has put out his cigarette on the cement with a grinding heel, dropped his phone on the ground, and got behind my upper body to keep me from falling. "Dude," he says in horror, "Who the hell - or _what -_ did this to you? Is it still around? Headed this way?"

I shake my head. "N-n-no."

"Was anyone else hurt? Or just you?"

"M-m-me." I lose my ability to hold myself up, and fall back against him. He gently lowers me down to the ground. The cement, hard and cold, hurts every part of me. I let out a sharp groan and felt my chest tighten. "Nuh... uh..." I choke out. "Can't... breathe."

"Don't move lil' buddy," Jeff replies. "I gotta grab my stuff - shit, no, I can't leave you here. Brian will bring his stuff. Shit." He presses his ear against my chest briefly. He doesn't have a stethoscope with him. "Okay, I'm going to take a wild guess here and say collapsed lung. Damnit I know I am doing this wrong - I think I am skipping steps - hey," Jeff picks up his fallen cell and holds it to his ear again. "You're still on. You're coming now? Okay good - did you bring everything? Oh, I don't know - f*cking everything?! Spider-Guy is bad, dude. Really bad. He's having trouble breathing. He's so covered in blood right now I can't tell where - his lung? Yeah. I've got puncture wounds, lacerations - yeah, I forgot that. Okay. I got it. Thanks."

Jeff leans back over me and gently pulls my right side up and leans me onto my left side. This eases the weirdness in my chest.

"Seriously - dude - you didn't leave us looking like this. This wasn't from average super hero stuff, right?" Jeff starts shoving away the torn pieces of my suit and trying to disentangle some of the wires still connecting the pieces. He's trying to look at the stab wound in my side. "Who did this to you?"

"I don't know," I whisper. "Somebody..."

"Where'd your mask go?" he asks confusedly. "I thought you never went without it."

I can't answer. I'm only whimpering. I sound like a dog that just got hit in the street by a car.

"Shh, shhh, it's okay, lil' buddy," Jeff looks up and sees Brian pushing one of the barriers out of the way, plastic-handled tubs in each hand. "We're going to get you some help."

Brian sits down beside us and looks down at my face in disbelief. I know that expression - the shock at my age. But he shakes off the questions and goes right to work.

...

...

AVENGERS FACILITY

...

...

They're keeping their voices low and not even bothering to shut the door. I am supposing at this point it is _quite_ obvious I never quite made the extent of my super-hearing clear to her.

"I know you're not a doctor," May says gently, "But you know this facility and the way it functions best. Can you give me a ballpark estimate of how much we're looking at? As far as cost? It's Peter's wishes that his identity _stay_ a secret, so emergency surgery at the Avenger's complex isn't exactly a bill you can submit to insurance. Without insurance I'm paying out of pocket. Any chance you could... let me know. Just a guess."

Happy makes a little scoffing sound. "That's not how it works here. And you may be surprised to find I _most certainly do not_ know every detail that goes on around here, too."

"Uh huh."

"I know every detail concerning _Mr. Stark._ We have certain medical treatments funded by medical research grants, Stark industry scholarships. For someone who signs the accords, there's some coverage from a budget the UN created. For Peter in particular, Stark Industries already has a subdivision that manufactures medical equipment for developing countries, an initiative that was created when Stark stopped the weapons division. So we had what we needed - we didn't have to dip into pools for the cost of..."

I imagine at this point Aunt May held up a hand to cut him short. "Spare me the details, please, I just need to know if I need to pawn off Ben's wedding ring at this point. Level with me."

I cringe and squeeze my eyes shut. I didn't even want to hear this - but there's no really stopping it.

"Peter's expenses here are covered," Happy sighs. "Simply put, we had the space and the supplies already. We paid the medical professionals a salary for their work and that comes out of a specific budget - not copays or patient bills. They fly in when we need them to and eventually they will be here full time when the Avengers team is fully - uh - operable - and the facility is running at full capacity. So if Peter ever needs anything - physical therapy - follow ups - hell, a chiropractor - it's here. Covered."

Silence.

"Dental?" May whispers, almost as a joke, but her voice is hopeful.

"Why the hell not?" Happy chuckles. "So... uh... give us a call when his wisdom teeth start giving him trouble, I guess?"

"Very funny," I mutter, then I clap a hand over my mouth, fall down into the pillow, and turn so that my back is to the door. I try to slow my breathing and look asleep again. It doesn't work, of course. But I'm in the clear - neither of them heard me, anyway.

"I will," Aunt May says quietly, taking a deep breath. "I don't suppose that you just gave me some of the best news I've ever - ever - received in my life."

"I didn't know. Not really."

"I'm basically a single mom of a teenager boy who tries to fight crime - do you know how much I worried about the cost of medical expenses _before_ he found himself a primary caregiver a la Avengers?"

"I can't imagine, I guess," Happy says apologetically. "But we're... glad to help. He's a good kid. Ya know? A real good kid. They all are."

May's voice takes on a quizzical tone. "I just realized that we're standing here in a hallway at," she glances at a watch, "At o'dark thirty and I have no idea what you're doing here. What are you doing here? Did you need something?" she pauses. "Are you the door security tonight...?"

"Oh, this place is locked down," Happy responds. "You don't need a detail at the door."

"So you are here because...? I am sorry, I don't mean to be rude - but this - has been such a weird few days... and I'm _very_ sleep deprived right now."

"I, uh... came to find my badge."

"The one you're wearing right now...?"

"One and the same. Disappeared on me earlier before I left and locked up for the night."

"I'm... too tired for this. Just talk straight with me."

"I think our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is also my friendly neighborhood pick pocket."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Uh, I mean, I ain't stupid. I hear someone following me around the facility at night. Someone small and stealthy. Should I note there's no one else staying here right now except you two? Thought not."

"And your badge disappeared?"

"My badge disappeared," he confirms, "I come by to check on the kiddo before heading out, and he's not in his bed. So I have a sit right here to wait for him to come back. A few minutes turn into a few hours. A few hours turns into me having a sleepover. And then I wake up to the sounds of him sneaking back into his room and knocking his bed into the next century while he does it. Badge is back on my belt. You do the math."

"Peter's the one that's good at math," May mumbles, sounding a little angry, but mostly just exhausted. "What do you suppose he was doing all night?" Suddenly her voice rises a bit. "You don't suppose he went right back out into the city to try and - and - do super hero things, do you?"

I sit up out of bed and swing my legs over the side. If I could do _one_ thing tonight that isn't being a total asshole, I need to do it soon. I am slowly running out of opportunities.

Happy shrugs. "At the state he is in without any of his suits? With my badge? Unlikely."

May considers this. "If he's... getting into _more_ trouble, I want to know before he winds up dead."

"I can check some things - see if I can't see the logs for anytime my badge was used at a security access point."

"I was just going to ask him," Aunt May suggests. "The thing is - kid lies to me all the time. He's got lies coming out of his butt. I don't know when he stopped being truthful with me - maybe before he even got his powers, I don't know. But I never stop giving him the benefit of the doubt. I never fully lost my trust in him. Funny how that works."

I slip out of the bed and walk softly to the door. I had already decided a few moments ago to come clean. But how I could possibly explain, I don't know how...

"It _is_ funny," Happy deadpans. He doesn't seem amused at all. Mostly confused.

I know he's upset that I stole his badge. After all he's done for me, I go and violate that trust like it was nothing.

"So what if he lies to me again?" May sighs. "I still plan on just confronting him about it. No one ever raised a teenager successfully by tiptoeing around the consequences. But I least I gave him a shot, y'know?"

I tap slightly on the doorframe and step out, feeling awkward and emotionally worn. "I need to tell you something," I say abruptly. "I owe you both an apology."

They don't reply. They both look surprised that I didn't actually fall asleep in less than five seconds, but somehow expectant.

"I stole your badge, Happy, I'm so - so sorry," I say awkwardly. "I messed up. After all you've done for me, it was a super douchey thing for me to do. I am _really_ sorry. I snatched it off your belt when you walked by me."

"Walked by you WHEN?" Happy snaps, less out of anger and more out of pure disbelief that I managed to get something off his belt while he's such a careful man by nature.

"Uh - I hid - under a reception desk?" I confessed, squinting like one of those guilty Youtube dogs that got caught destroying paper products.

"What the crap, Peter?" May looks utterly baffled. "Stealing? Come on. Didn't I teach you better than that?"

"What'd you need it for?" Happy asks. "You know if you wanted the full tour I would have given you one. I mean, later, after you recovered. I know you haven't seen much of the place except the visitor's entrance and the media reception area and there is a _lot_ going on - but that doesn't mean you can't ask."

I take a deep breath and unleash the verbal kraken.

"I _really_ wanted to find out the name of the guy and fill in some memory gaps," I erupted, "...so I waited till I saw you locking up for the evening then I hid under the counter and took your badge when you went by - it was super dumb of me and I am so sorry and I can make up for it somehow so I got into the lab and used the AI to hack into the systems and I know it's just the stupidest thing ever but it's not like I was going to keep it a secret anyway because I already know the shift manager is going to get like an email alert that someone logged in after hours and so I watched it and passed out and I realized I couldn't leave the garbage bag so I took them all out to the janitor's closet..."

"Whoa, Peter, sweetheart," May puts her hands on either shoulder and then runs her hands up and down my upper arms, trying to make me calm down. "Just - slow down. Okay? Slow down. Also, you're _freezing._ Why don't we go back in and sit down?"

May pushes me gently back into the room and sits me down on the futon, wrapping her blanket around me. She brushes some hair away from my forehead. It feels damp.

"You don't look so good," she says slowly. "Mr. Hogan, will you get a cup of water for him please?"

Happy huffs over to the sink and fills a paper cup with a tap water.

"I don't want water," I find myself saying irrationally. "I want to say I am sorry for stealing Happy's badge and lying about it..."

"I hear you," Aunt May replies, accepting the cup from Happy and holding it loosely towards me. "I'm going to need you to try again though. A little slower. What exactly did you do with Mr. Hogan's badge?"

I accept the cup of water but I don't drink it. "I got into one of the IT rooms where they were reviewing the footage from the baby monitor program," I say, with the same word vomit as before, but without exceeding recommended speed limits. "...and I used what was left of my AI drive to hack into a guest account and then I... watched it." I look down at my water with shame.

"You... watched it," Happy intones doubtfully.

"You watched your _abduction_ footage?" May repeats.

"All of it?" Happy asks.

I can barely nod. "Yes."

"Jesus, kid," Happy responds. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I didn't know what happened and I didn't know who hurt me," I say slowly. "And I needed to find out."

"But why?" Aunt May asks.

"Not knowing wasn't an option for me," I say shortly. "Never."

I can almost hear the record scratch sound as Aunt May processes my first attempt to explain.

"Did you say that you passed out?"

I can't stop it before it happens - it's childish - pathetic, even. A lip tremble, and a voice wavering to accompany it. Even so, I try to disguise the unwelcome tears with a laugh, which only sounds like a pathetic little _huff._ "It was really gross to watch," I try to say with a smile, but it's not a smile. Not even close.

"Yeah - that's not - uh, gonna fly here?" Happy says with a horrified expression, as if someone just asked him what day of the month to expect Christmas. He holds a phone up to his ear. "If you passed out we're calling your doctor back here. That's not normal. You don't look so good, kid, anyway. Ya look like you're running a temp - doesn't he look like he's running a temp? He's running a temp. Uh huh." I realize somewhere in the trifecta of saying _temp_ over and over, he actually called someone. I really hope it's not Stark. "He's looking really pale and clammy. He isn't drinking any water."

"I said I'm not thirsty," I attempt, setting the cup on the table. The thought of drinking water is making me nauseous.

Aunt May wraps her arms around me gently, pulling me in for one of those warm hugs that I might ordinarily squirm away from. Not now. "Why would you go and do a thing like that?" she whispers in my ear.

"I dunno," I reply, my mouth muffled by her hair. "It was dumb."

"And you haven't been sleeping at all?" she pulls back and ascertains me with a critical eye. "That would have been several hours worth..."

"I think it was about five hours or something, yeah," I say, trying to think of it in a clinical sense. "Uh - yeah. Just a lot of videos. Watched through them all. It wasn't... yeah. That's what I did."

"And you fainted?"

I nod numbly. "I threw up. And then I couldn't stop hyperventilating and then I passed out."

"What would've happened if you had fallen and ripped open your wounds?" May scolds. "What if you bled out all night on the floor of some random-ass computer storage room and we couldn't _find_ you? And you died? Did you think about that?"

"No."

"What am I going to do with you?"

"Ground me?"

May shakes her head. "If you think I'm grounding you after what you've been through, you're nuts."

"Aunt May," I reply, "I am so sorry. I don't deserve you."

"Oh, stop that. I am not even going to try and understand why you'd want to see that video - it boggles my mind, Peter. Just screws it right up. I can't imagine."

"It was..." I struggle to piece my thoughts together. "It was really awful."

Aunt May shakes her head. "If you did not understand the full extent of your injuries when the doctor's explained in medical terms, you sure as hell do now."

I touch my side again, and an overwhelming blossom of pain slowly presses in from the shape of my hand, and spreads up my ribs and into my chest. I feel like I'm getting stepped on by horses - if I could imagine such a feeling. I feel suddenly overly sensitive to smell, Iike I can smell the ripeness of any bandages touched by sweat. A sort of odor comes from the knife wound, and I imagine it smells sort of green and red. Back to the Christmas metaphors. That's not a good sign, right?

I start to feel the swarm of dizziness close in, like drawing curtains over the surround sound so that I only hear in the shape of circles, instead of omnipresence. I feel heat tingle at the top of my head and pour down my spine and arms like a science fair volcano on overload. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and I think I feel the pillow next to me slowly rise in the air of it's own accord.

"Peter, honey."

"I don't feel good." I touch the pillow, and it feels cool on my face.

"I know," Aunt May says slowly. "Can you open up your eyes for me, baby? Just look at me for a sec." There's a shuffle of movement and I hear Happy hit the button to summon a nurse.

"Yeah, well," he is saying on the phone, "Wake him up. Just to safe. He's on _my_ watch. So yeah." He hangs up his cell phone, sounding annoyed as heck.

"Peter, come on honey. Look at me. Come on."

If we were playing the floor is lava, _seeing_ is lava, and sleeping is where I'm safe. Where I can stop thinking for a little while.

...

...

* * *

...

...

A/N 1:

Guys I got told last week at work that I looked like the original Mary Jane from the Tobey Maguire version of Spiderman. Not true but the hair is very red right now, so that's funny...

This meaningless fact is meant to distract you from the fact I went from posting daily to just never posting at all?! I am so sorry! I have been so ridiculously busy and plus had a little writer's block PLUS I had to do some major research. Why?! Because my brother is a freaking firefighter in training to be an EMT and I needed some major help with the scene when Peter finally connects with someone who can help him. I didn't know what the crap a medical professional would do in that type of situation. So not only did my (adorable) brother have me describe the scenario, he walked me through the treatment process, and then brought down some of his stuff from school so that I could take pictures of the textbook list. Let's just say it was SUPER helpful. It's not going to be super accurate and I don't remember *everything* that he explained to me (thanks short term memory!) but it would be majorly improved now than a chapter I would have written 2 weeks ago. Plus we were celebrating his birthday today so I was busy with fun family times. (also his movie of choice was... Captain America Civil War. So that helped with the writer's block too. :)

A/N 2 :

Just had my second-to-last cancer screening for the year! Still have one left in December but my levels are all still normal and I am still cancer free! Woohoo! I mean let's be real it's probably the number one reason why I find whump so relatable. The last few years of my life have been nothing but whump. Except on me. And nonfiction. lol. Sorry, bad jokes... I'm sleep deprived. Sometimes my best writing happens when I'm sleep deprived. XD


	24. Guard Dog of All Your Fever Dreams

Dear Readers,

Thanks for sticking around, and thanks for all your follows and favorites. Please shoot me a PM or a review if you enjoy this chapter! If you don't... well... you can still follow me to see if I improve ;)

Sending all the love as always,

Pip

...

...

* * *

...

...

WEDNESDAY MORNING

...

...

Brian is doing a quick scan, looking a little overwhelmed at the sheer extent of injuries. "Okay," he says, his voice hitching with worry. "It looks like - a puncture wound here, and down on his foot. Lacerations on the chest and arms and face. I'm seeing a few broken bones - nose, fingers - wrist, maybe." He uses his hands tentatively and gently to keep me on my side, which makes it easier to breathe.

"What the heck happened to you?" Jeff is asking.

I look blearily down into the dark asphalt. The details in the cracks and the tiny beads of grass poking through have my complete focus. It's easier to zero in on something that doesn't matter than it is to think about what was happening less than an hour ago. "...I escaped," I mumble.

"Can you call for the bus?" Brian starts.

"Dude, _no,"_ Jeff interjects. "It's _Spider-Man._ Come on. We can't - we can't be the guys that _out_ him from the hero closet?"

"Okay, yeah, I thought so too," Brian says, opening one of the containers he brought with him and pulling random ass items out and placing them on the pavement. "But that was when it was just a little smoke inhalation and I actually thought it'd be someone, like, famous and recognizable under the mask. This is a _kid._ F*ck - where's his parents? Did you think about that?"

"It's not right. I didn't call you out here to blow this shit up. I called you because you left his mask on earlier. You're _the_ guy. _He_ can trust you - and me. You know?" Jeff bends down and and shines a tiny light into my eyes. "You can trust us, little dude. Don't listen to this guy."

"What if he dies, huh? Laying here on the street?" Brian whispers. "And we're standing here with his blood on our hands?"

"We got to do what we can."

"What we can do may not be enough," Brian snaps, pressing a stethoscope to my back. I make a pathetic sort of whimper. I'm in so much pain I've almost completely checked out mentally, but feel so unbearably _physically_ present that there's even little relief from the fact I'm no longer in _danger_ from more torture.

"We could get fired for not doing this properly," Brian continues. "We could lose _everything._ "

"Yeah, well, maybe we get killed for getting sucked into some sort of inter dimensional Avengers conflict, huh?" Jeff exclaims. "Let's think big picture. We take him to the hospital and the Hulk attacks and like destroys an entire wing, with multiple casualties and then frickin' Iron Man _sues_ us for a hundred million dollars!"

"Respiratory rate 24," Brian says, and he slides a strap around my head. "We'll get you some air, here, okay, uh, Spider-Man?"

The oxygen mask puts pressure on my broken nose. I whimper again, putting my uninjured hand - still balled around my mask - to try and pull it away.

Jeff notices, gently pulling my hand down. "I know it hurts, Spidey-Dude. But you need some help with the breathin', okay? And the mask you're holding onto right now won't help." The two of them gently roll me over onto my back again, but this time there is something between me and the cement. Something thin they were able to unfold, and nothing comfortable, unfortunately.

I'm crying inside the mask, fogging up the inside and hot tears streaming down to the straps where salt makes it itch like crap. Brian gently tries to adjust the straps and make it a little more comfortable, his hand coming away from the back of my head with blood on his blue medical gloves. His eyes widen slightly and he pulls more gauze out of his box.

Jeff is still holding my wrist and hand loosely in his, trying to check for the pulse.

Brian zeroes in on the stab wound first in my side, moving away the ripped edges of the suit around it and gently pressing a some sort of thick, gauzy material over it. "Can you get the foot?" he asks quietly.

"On it," Jeff replies. He grabs something else from the ground - I realize it's his thick fireman's jacket - and balls it up in his hands, gently lifting my feet off the ground and setting them on top.

"You're so not passing your tests," Brian intones dryly, checking the knife wound again between my ribs.

"I f*cking realize that!" Jeff barks. "But I'm all you got, and _volunteering for this shit, too!"_

"He _needs_ a hospital, though, you know that, right?" Brian starts cleaning and laying more gauze and bandages over my chest. My body shudders beneath his touch. _"Ow,"_ I groan quietly.

"If you call someone else who blabs this poor kid's face to the whole internet, then things like this might happen to him again!" Jeff begins to wrap my foot.

"You're the worst," Brian replies.

"He seems... okay... to me..." I mumble inside the mask.

"He speaks!" Brian says, looking a little surprised. "I don't really know how you're conscious right now."

"Jeff's a newbie," Jeff is saying in third person, his voice high and affected. He's digging through one of the supply kits and completely unaware we are listening. "Jeff doesn't want to be a paramedic or an EMT, Jeff just wants to put water on fires! Jeff has no goals!"

Despite everything, I crack a smile through the tears.

"We've _got_ to take him to the hospital," Brian repeats quietly, then looks down at me again. "Okay - buddy - I need to get your wrists wrapped up here. And these seriously messed up fingers. This'll hurt a bit."

" _Hnng,"_ is all I can manage when Brian puts my left wrist in a small plastic splint.

"Really hurts," I try to say, the mask beginning to make me feel claustrophobic. I pull it off with my right hand.

"Come on, kid, you gotta leave that on. And quit moving that other wrist till I can splint it too."

"Just... a little break," I whisper. "Please. My... uh... lungs feel... better."

"Oh sure," Jeff exclaims... "Because why not? Why not have lungs that can self-heal? Totally normal."

"Hang on, this'll hurt," Brian says. He's moved on to my broken fingers. "One, two, three."

I'm crying again, and speaking somewhat nonsensically. "Wh-who n-n-needs fingers an-y-y-way?" my sarcasm is a little overwhelmed, to put it nicely. "I... want to... go... home."

"Where's home?" Brian asks. "Where's your family? Where do you live?"

The difference between a cop from Hell's Kitchen and an EMT from Manhattan asking the same question shouldn't be so exponential. But it is. I only shake my head slightly and look away.

"There's got to be someone we can call," Jeff says.

"Karen?" I whisper. No response. She hadn't uttered a peep since she said she was going to try and contact an ambulance and the officer stomped the crap out of the mask.

"Who's Karen?" asks Brian. "Is that your mom? Can we call your mom for you?"

I am guessing she was unsuccessful - just as well, anyway.

"N-n-n-no," I whisper. "My mom is dead."

I didn't mean to say it, it just fell out. Technically, I have a mom. Aunt May has been my mom for most of my life. But the truth was - my real mother was dead. So was my dad. And I didn't want them to call Aunt May - this would be too much, I knew it. Too much like how Uncle Ben left us - lying in the street like this, in the darkness, bleeding out...

"Sorry," Brian replies kindly. "Is there someone else? A guardian, maybe?"

Jeff was right. I didn't want to go to a hospital if I could avoid it. But now that I am lying here on the ground - is just getting a few bandaids and waddling away even possible? _I_ don't even know the full extent of my injuries. I hadn't thought the puncture wound between the ribs was even the worst - but then after coughing up blood and having trouble breathing - it was. What did I know? Clearly not enough to save my own life.

My eyes widen. Of course. _They_ have phones. They need to call Happy. My phone might be on the fritz but that doesn't mean I don't have Happy's number memorized. I'm beyond grateful I took the time to commit it to memory - even though at the time it felt like such a childish, stalker thing to do.

...

...

AVENGERS FACILITY

...

...

"Peter Parker," I feel Aunt May's hand grip my face and gently pat either side of my cheeks. "Do what I say and look at me for a second. Ya hear me?"

I blearily open my eyes. I feel so _weird._ Not awake, and not asleep. In between. My brain stepped out of my body and observes with casual indifference, and despite being fuzzy and losing it's sense of self, I feel like I am seeing everything with strangely sharp detail. I am laying back on the futon, my head on her pillow, my legs still crookedly hanging over the side. Aunt May is leaning on top of me, a hand on either side of my face.

"Don't you pass out on me," May is saying. "Don't you dare. Stay awake, okay?"

"I'm just really tired!" I exclaim, awkwardly loud and abruptly.

"Honey, I think your temperature is running a little high. And you're probably dehydrated. I _knew_ taking you off the IVs overnight was a bad idea."

I moan. "I feel _super_ weird. Like, uh, just... a mess."

"You _are_ a mess. But you're my mess." Aunt May keeps running her fingers through my hair. She may think that having greasy hair sometimes is just something that teenager boys have, but from my experience, it's because she can't freaking keep her hands out of it.

"Did you hit your head?" she asks gently. "When you fainted before? Do you remember?"

"No," I reply. "I was already sitting down. I didn't fall. I don't even remember the fainting part. I just remember waking up from it. Thas'sall."

I feel a bubble of air slide up my throat. I lean over and gag slightly, swallowing one, two, three times consecutively. May rubs my back sympathizingly. "You gonna throw up again?" she asks.

I shake my head _no._ But I don't answer. Just the movement sent the room rocking back and forth like the view from a fishing boat on stormy waters.

The nurse walks in and Aunt May stands up to step out of the way. Her warmth is replaced by an instantaneous chill.

"Good morning Mr. Parker," says the nurse, the same pretty middle-aged woman in lavender scrubs. This time it's just the lavender shirt - she's wearing pajama bottoms with little snowmen on them. She probably has quarters nearby and is losing a good night's sleep on account of me.

"I don't know if you remember me," she says. "We've interacted a few times since you came in. My name is Rose. Or Rosie, if you like."

"Hi Rosie," I squawk.

"You feelin' pretty bad, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Pain on a scale of one to ten?"

I think back to the basement, and shudder. "Probably a two."

"Two we can manage, can't we?" Rosie says comfortingly. "Talk to me about what's going on."

"He almost passed out a second ago, fell right over," May explains. "He's chilled and dehydrated, I think. He hasn't been sleeping at _all,"_ she gives me a sort of stern glare. "Unfortunately he's been wandering around the building getting into things he shouldn't be."

Rosie leans back and holds my wrist loosely, checking my pulse.

"He's nauseous right now," Aunt May continues, her eyebrows furrowing with worry. "He did say he fainted and threw up earlier when he was off... exploring. About what time would you say that happened, Peter?"

"I don't know," I answer, "Maybe... one a.m.? Two a.m.? I don't remember. I'm sorry."

"But he didn't hit his head," Aunt May adds. "That's a good thing, right?"

"Mhm," Rosie gently pushes her fingers into the sides of my neck, avoiding the bandage on the knife wound. She runs a tiny temperature gauge across my forehead, one of the newer kinds that look like something out of Star Trek. "Do you still feel dizzy?"

I don't answer. I feel like my head is too heavy on my neck, lolling off to the side. I watch Happy's shape disappearing out the door like a big black bear in a nature documentary.

"Peter?" Rosie repeats. She pushes a cold stethoscope against my chest for a moment.

"I don't feel good," I mumble.

"Think you can sit up for us?"

I blink a few times and widen my eyes, trying to tune in to them. It doesn't help the blur through the static. "Nuh-uh."

"Okay, then you stay," Rosie gets up and walks back to the IV stand. When she starts to pull it towards us, one of the tiny wheels swings the wrong way. She has to wrestle it a little, like a runaway shopping cart, to get it where it needs to go. She looks very confused as to why a state of the art facility like this has an IV stand functioning like a vehicle from Mario Kart.

Aunt May lets out an unfortunate snicker, and then sobers immediately. "I'm sorry," she says hastily, "I'm - not awake right now. I'm very tired. Let me help you with that, I wasn't thinking." She and Rosie push the IV back towards the futon, the wheels making horrible squeaky sounds. Rosie holds my left arm down on the blanket.

"Little poke in three, two, one," she warns, re-inserting the IV into my forearm, about halfway between the inner elbow and the wrist. "Your aunt is right," she narrates as she starts hooking up everything else, the heart monitor is back on, the pulse thing on my finger, "...you're dehydrated. And exhausted. I mean - aside from the other brutal injuries you're recovering from. I don't know what possessed you to go exploring." She glances apologetically at Aunt May. "Sorry - It's not my place."

"No, please," Aunt May says too eagerly. "Be my guest. Let him have it. Just.. gently."

Rosie turns back to me. "All right, then," she says sternly, adding one final piece of humiliation - the plastic nasal cannula around my head with the tiny end piece in each nostril. "I'm the medical professional, here, and I expect my patients to listen to my words."

I nod, properly shamed. I also didn't realize how hard I was working to take deep breaths until I had something helping me do it.

"So when I say you need rest and hydration, what do you think you should be getting?"

"Rest and hydration," I reply in a guilty monotone.

"That's right," Rosie answers. "All right - you should be feeling a few things by now. Let's go through them. Breathing?"

"Easy."

"Feel everything coming into that IV?"

"It's really cold."

"We'll get you some another blanket in a moment. How's the dizziness?"

"It's a little better." I put a hand to my head. "I don't feel... I don't know. I feel weird."

"That'll be your fever. I'm going to call your doctor. Sometimes a little fever will pop up to fight off potential infections, so we're not actually going to try and get _rid_ of it. But it does give us a heads up that something's going on. Make sense?"

I momentarily forget that Aunt May doesn't know any of the details and plow ahead. "If I was cut in multiple areas with a screwdriver sharpened to a point, how likely am I to get tetanus or something?"

Rosie sighs. "Stark's team cleared the area and tested all the... stuff... that was found there. Nothing was contaminated, if that's what you mean."

"He kept the screwdriver with him," I say, my voice wobbling slightly. "He... uh... p-p-put it in his pocket... and left with it..."

"Jesus," Aunt May says under her breath

Rosie lays her hand on my forehead once more. "I'm real sorry you went through all that, honey. Let's not think about it for now. We focus on one problem at a time."

"Yeah... okay," I reply.

"Feel good enough to stand up?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"All right, lean on my arm then. Up ya go!" Rosie lets me use my own weight to sit up slowly. I brace myself on her arm and she stands, letting me take my time in standing with her. She's a short, plump person, but I am still surprised at myself for being taller than her.

Somehow, inner me does a fist pump and thinks _Hell yeah_ \- _growth spurt! It's about time._

I'm barely half way to the bed before I turn a little too quickly and look at May in a panic. "Aunt May," I say urgently. "Can I use your phone? I need to text Ned."

Aunt May looks at me a little too calmly. "I'm afraid to ask... what happened to your phone. I don't suppose... your... uh... abductor took it, did he?"

"No," I say quickly, refocusing on the task at hand. Rose points with a no-nonsense expression at the bed. I get into it slowly, and she pushes the IV stand back to the left side. Aunt May jogs up to my right and starts to tuck the blankets around me like I'm five.

"It melted. In the fire."

Aunt May stops. "What fire?" Rosie and her share a look. Rose quickly steps over to the monitor in the corner and starts filling in notes on my chart.

"Y'y'know... uh... the fire. In Manhattan," I answer.

"What the hell are you talking about?" she exclaims, stepping back and giving me the same look Michelle gave me about two and a half weeks ago when life was simple and I got _really_ excited about the fact that when an electron meets a positron they destroy each other.

"And two photons will just, blast out of the energy! In a flash bang!" I said loudly.

"We will never be cool," bemoaned Ned.

Yeah... Michelle wasn't really impressed either. I mean... photons. Quarks. It's... exciting stuff. Michelle knew exactly what I was talking about, too. She's on the decathlon team, after all. She just wasn't _excited_ about it so much that she had to randomly spout off facts like we were at a competition. We weren't. We were in chemistry class.

"You forgot to press the buzzer first," she had said, deadpan.

I looked for a buzzer confusedly, and then realized what she meant. "Har, har," I had replied.

"Peter!" Aunt May exclaims.

"Uh - I thought I texted you," I reply lamely.

Aunt May frustratingly whips out her phone and opens the message app. "Oh - you mean _THIS?"_ she begins to read out loud. "Rescuing kittens from trees and old ladies from burning buildings - don't worry, _I'm FIREPROOF?_ You mean THIS text?"

"Yeah?"

She slams onto the little table attached to the side of the hospital bed, takes a deep breath, and massages her temples. "My dear - sweet - nephew," she says, "You - are not - replaceable. Phones are. Of course you can _borrow_ my phone temporarily." she slides it slowly across the table. "I am very tired. And I am very upset. I keep forgetting that you are here safe, and I've been waking up all night in an absolute _panic_ that you're still missing - and I've lost you." She throws her hands in the air. "And yet I didn't roll over once and see you were gone from your bed. What's the irony of that? don't answer," she holds up a finger. "So you left to save old ladies from burning buildings and wound up... abducted by a psychopath. Is this what I am going to have to worry about every time you go out to fight crime? Save a cat from a tree, lose a limb. Save a kid from a car accident, get robbed and shot. Save an old lady - kidnapped. Is that how this will go?" Aunt May puts a hand on my lower leg and squeezes gently, avoiding my eyes. "Can I ever let you go again without having an effing heart attack?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

Aunt May wipes her nose with the back of her hand and still refuses to meet my eyes. She looks at Rose, who has been pretending to look busy for far too long. "So. What's next?"

"Both of you need to get the hell to sleep," Rose answers loudly. "Sleep, sleep sleep. I'm going to touch base with Mr. Hogan outside a moment, he was calling your doctor. My guess is he will be here in the morning to check on you..." she glances at the clock. "Well. _Later_ this morning. Probably when the sun is up. We'll see how you do with a little sleep and fluids. I'm going to recommend a few hours."

May finally looks at me. "You heard the doctor, go the f*ck to sleep."

"That's a good book," Rose answers as she heads for the door. "Okay? You guys okay? Remember, I'm just a button press away."

"Thank you for everything," Aunt May tries to cover a yawn. "We'll take your advice." She slowly sits back on her futon, looking a little lost.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah," she smiles at me. "You?"

"I mean... yeah. Now I am. I will be."

"Larb you," she says.

"I larb you too."

...

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* * *

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 **Don't forget those reviews! I see you lurkers! You make my stats go up. Don't be shy!**

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* * *

...

...

 **Author's Note:**

I have been WAITING to use the larb line. I cringed so hard at that scene in the movie, it was so corny, but somehow more realistic to normal every-day conversations. People don't have famous writers writing their scenes with friends - families - or adopted aunt guardian!

Seriously, big shout out to my little brother for talking me through the right order of business for an EMT. I told him that if I get anything wrong, I'm blaming it on Jeff. XD

...

...

* * *

 **Quiz time!**

I know you guys have missed this!

How many of you are buying Spider-Man Homecoming on digital, blu ray, or DVD this weekend? I am hitting up Wal-Mart tomorrow with my sister and I am sort of hoping to find it for cheap. New movies are so expensive. What was your favorite part of the movie?

Okay, that was a warm up. Here are the real quiz questions.

 **1) What is something you would LIKE to see happen in Infinity War -**

 **2) What is something you DON'T want to see happen in Infinity War?**


	25. Mentor, Mentee

...

Dearest Readers,

I have almost zero excuses for taking so long to update. I mean, I have a few. I went on vacation to Disneyland... my life went totally berserk with social activity (which is super weird because I am really not social lol), and I've started playing dungeons and dragons with my friends on a weekly basis. (my character is a halfling named Pippin, naturally!) Also, I had a LOT of writers block going on, but with my new friend Queen of Crystallopia (everyone thank your new beta! She's keeping my chapters pretty and tidy and nice to read!) She's totally rocking the fan fiction world and that inspires me to pick up the metaphorical pencil!

Anywho, I am BACK IN THE SADDLE AGGAAAAIIIIIIN! (cue Supernatural transition music)

Stay tuned all the way to the end for some shout-outs and more fun quiz questions!

All the love,

Pippin

...

...

* * *

...

...

AVENGERS FACILITY

...

...

 _I larb you, too._

The lights are out and I wait for Aunt May to fall asleep. I can tell by her breathing in the cot next to me. When it slows and deepens, I scroll through her phone and open a message conversation with Ned. There are already texts there.

* * *

You - Ned, are you with Peter?

Ned - No ma'am

You - Are you lying to cover for him for some reason?

Ned - No I swear. why, is he not home yet?

You - No

You - It's been several hours, he was supposed to be home ages ago

You - you promise he's not with you

Ned - Promise

Ned - um

Ned - he's not answering his phone or my texts

You - mine either.

You - I'm sure it's nothing... just losing track of time while beating some mugger up

Ned - what r u talking about he's probably studying

Ned - chemistry

Ned - math

Ned - ...

Ned - ...high school is SO hard :(

You - funny. really funny.

You - OR

You - he's in bright red spandex trying to save patrons in a bank robbery

Ned - WHAT NO

Ned - Peter would never do that

Ned - if anything he's the bank robber

Ned - robbing from... the rich... and giving to the poor?

You - ...

You - ...

You - Seriously?

You - I know about the spider-man thing.

You - so cut it out.

Ned - shit I forgot you found him out and grounded him I'm so sorry I totally forgot you knew

You - did Peter tell you you're grounded too?

Ned - Yes :(

You - you're ungrounded if you tell me where he is right now

Ned - May I swear I have no idea

Ned - I don't know where he is

Ned - you're freaking me out

Ned - Should I be worried

Ned - I should be worried

Ned - he left school at the normal time

Ned - that's the last time I saw him

Ned - I'll call you if he texts me back

You - Please do.

Ned - will you let me know if he comes home and says sorry for the dead cell phone battery?

You - Yes

[several hours later]

Ned - have you heard from Peter yet?

Ned - ...

Ned - ...

Ned - anything...?

Ned - hello?

Ned - I haven't heard from him either

[Wednesday morning]

Ned - hey May just wondering if you've seen Peter yet

Ned - Peter's not in school today

Ned - just letting you know

Ned - hello?

[Wednesday night]

Ned - so I went ahead and stopped by your apt after school and no one is home

Ned - r u out looking for Peter? I can help - is this like a serious thing? or a miscommunication?

You - everything is OK for now, Ned. I'm so sorry, I just charged up my phone today. Peter is with me now - sorry I can't talk right now

Ned - ok...?

Ned - r u guys ok? r u home now?

You - we're not home

Ned - is everything ok?

You - hon I'm sorry I can't talk right now

* * *

I feel badly for Ned - for May - even myself, to a point. Aunt May probably didn't know that I had Happy on speed dial. Aunt May probably didn't realize that Ned might have been able to check his phone history for the one and only time he called Happy during the homecoming dance - he could have called him again. Aunt May wouldn't have put the two and two together, otherwise she would have asked Ned for his number, and saved herself the trouble of trying a Stark industry customer service line. I feel so badly for Ned wondering where we were and why we weren't communicating. I check the timing of the last few texts - Aunt May sent the last one while she was standing in the hallway talking with Happy. I can just see it now - me posing by the door frame being a total sneak, Happy telling her this story, May distractedly fishing her phone out of her pocket, typing back a curt reply, and replacing the phone in her pocket with just enough time to realize that Happy was implying I stole his badge.

There are so many little things that could have gone differently. But I'll drive myself crazy if I try to think of all the what-ifs.

I tap out a quick phrase on her phone and send it to Ned.

* * *

You - dunno if you're awake - This is Peter. I'm borrowing May's phone.

* * *

There's a long pause. I don't know that Ned's awake at this point. It's the zero hour. I stayed up all night watching those stupid videos... he's going to set his alarm for the minimal amount of time to get ready for school and not a second more. Unless he's worried and has his phone turned up...

* * *

Ned - ...

* * *

Finally, an ellipsis appears. He's typing back.

* * *

Ned - How do I know it's really you and not some super villain who has taken both of you hostage and now it's up to me to save you

You - It's me

Ned - tell me something ONLY Peter knows

You - You wet the bed once because you had a dream that Jar Jar Binks was your dad

Ned - Holy shit it is you

Ned - where have you been

Ned - what the hell happened?

You - long story buddy

You - I can't write it all down

Ned - where are you?

You - the avengers complex

Ned - HOLY SPITBALLS NO KIDDING? AGAIN? ARE YOU ACCEPTING tHE OFFER THIS TIME

You - No

You - ...

You - ...

You - ...

You - ...

Ned - you keep typing and then not typing and its driving me crazy!

Ned - are you OK?

You - ...

You - ...

You - no

Ned - what happened?

You - Miss you, pal!

Ned - I miss you too? It's only been two days though? What happened?

You - I don't even know where to begin

Ned - where did you go after school yesterday, May was freaking out

You - Just spiderman stuff

Ned - Ok

Ned - then what

You - then I was sort of abducted by a psycho and tortured for several hours and then was let go and had to come here to recover in hiding

Ned - ...

Ned - ...

Ned - ...

Ned - WHAT?

You - uhhh yeah

Ned - YOU'RE JOKING RIGHT

You - I wish

Ned - R U OK THO SERIOUSLY

You - I'm ok now I guess

Ned - you[re seriously kidding right!111!

You - no

Ned - holy shit dude

You - yeah

Ned - OK wait what do you mean 'sort of' abducted and tortured

Ned - like... no food and water tried to a chair in a blue cell with a single spot light shining in your eyes? like FBI questioning sort of abducting?

You - no

You - more like... Lando betraying Han Solo to Boba Fett

You - and the pit of despair

You - maybe a Saw movie

Ned - I'm not allowed to see the Saw movies :(

You - actually me either now that I think about it?

Ned - dude

Ned - like

Ned - i don't know what else to say

Ned - but you're OK now

Ned - I mean, you're like, with Thor and Stark and the Hulk and Captain America -

You - none of the above

You - More like... doctors and nurses and Aunt May and Happy

Ned - that's like serious stuff

You - yeah...

Ned - dude...

You - dude i know

Ned - I'm like tripping out

You - me too

Ned - Love you, brother

You - love you too. I'm gonna pass out now

Ned - WAIT LIKE SERIOUSLY

Ned - SHIT

Ned - WHAT DO I DO

You - OMG NO IM SORRY

You - I meant sleep

You - I meant sleeping, I'm going to sleep

Ned - Jesus

You - I KNOW

Ned - shit dude

You - SORRY

Ned - NO I'M SORRY

Ned - I'll take notes for you at school

Ned - I can bring homework to you

You - I think I'm coming home tomorrow but thanks - notes would be good tho

Ned - what's the story?

You - flu bug.

Ned - that's it?

You - yeah it's sort of dumb - hopefully my face looks better

Ned - ...

Ned - ...

Ned - what's wrong with your face?

You - just busted up

Ned - :(

You - I'm fallingg asleep typing g2g

Ned - k

Ned - night brotha - text me tomorrow PLS

* * *

...

...

AFTER SCHOOL

...

...

I see the streets with new eyes. Well, same eyes. New self. Sense of self? Self awareness?

Spider sense?

Every tiny crack in the foundation of these old buildings, the brick, the mortar... it even smells differently. A hot dog vendor. Hat DWAWG to those with the Jersey accent.

I've lived through worse, I think, pressing my hand on the door. Someone who wants in faster than me sort of trips up on the step from the sidewalk behind me, and with breakneck speed, I've twisted around and shoved the door open with one arm, holding it open for the middle-aged woman carrying a large file box.

"Oh, ai'ght," she says, confusedly, in the same Jersey accent I was just thinking about. "Thanks?"

"No problem."

She ambles past me, and I let the door shut, step back down the step onto the sidewalk. I start to walk away, shoving my hands in my pockets with a sort of resignation.

This was a dumb idea.

 _Seriously? Am I walking away right now?_

I'm just a kid -

 _A smart one. And I can climb walls, so…_

Compared to last week, this isn't scary. At all.

 _Don't be a wuss._

I change my mind and march back to the door, pushing it open and stepping into lobby of the Daily Bugle.

...

 **...**

AVENGERS FACILITY

...

 **...**

I wake up and the sun is streaming through the window.

And I'm antsy.

I slip out of bed, carefully taking a step to check the cot - Aunt May is still sound asleep. Good. I've put her through an emotional psychological hell the last 48 hours. She deserves the extra rest.

The window beckons to me. I'm imagining swinging through the air, the cold snap of frost on a fall morning, before the big whoosh of cold air when I get out of the spaces between buildings and finally get to the top of a skyscraper, the freedom of standing on the edge and not worried about falling. The New York skyline a bright, cerulean blue, cloudless, and the Avenger's tower now just... another tooth in the long mouth of Manhattan.

"Huh," I whisper out loud, noticing the actual view, not the one I'm daydreaming about. Well-manicured grounds outside the facility, well structured sidewalks winding between trees and a parking lot with a lot of... vans. The SHIELD-esque looking kinds.

And then there's Vision... running laps. He does this a lot apparently. Does he get bored easily? Does he even need to work out? Isn't he... synthetic? Does he sleep? The magenta and gold of his - skin - or suit, I don't even know - is glinting in the sun. He's also running a lot faster than normal humans. It's eerie but totally fascinating.

"Ahem."

I turn around and Tony Stark is standing in the open door. He looks like he's already conquered half a day and bought out a few million dollar companies. He begins to open his mouth, and in a panic, I wave one arm wildly from side to side, press a finger to my lips, and then point at Aunt May.

Mr. Stark looks down at her, then back at me, as if weighing the dangers of waking her up.

I fold my hands and make a please motion.

"You," he mouths, without actually saying it out loud. He points at me, points in the hall, each movement precise and robotic. His mouth is stern as he adds silently, "Now."

Oh shit, Happy told him. He knows I watched the videos and stole his badge. I am so busted. I am going to get fired from... well, everything. Or just never get hired. Ever.

Head down with shame, I start to walk towards him, and get a tug at the end of my IV. With a sigh, I return to the stand, grab it by the middle, and wheel it along with me. I must look so pathetic.

The cockeyed wheel squeaks so loudly I'm afraid it'll wake Aunt May up - but it doesn't. She's in another plane of existence entirely even as I squeak by her, finally hitching the wheel over the frame edge and onto the carpeted hall.

For a moment, Mr. Stark just stares at me with a completely unreadable expression.

"Hey," I say, sort of breathlessly. "Uh..."

"Shhhffft," he makes a sort of shushing noise and waves me onward, to follow him down the hallway a few feet, away from the open door. He points at the chair Happy was sleeping in last night. "You," he says. "Sit."

I obey, looking down at at the IV in my arm.

A handwritten note on post-it paper flutters into my eyeline and lands in my lap.

* * *

 ** _Sorry for all the garbage bags by your housekeeping cart, but I didn't know where the dumpster was. Hopefully this helps?_**

 ** _Thanks!_**

 ** _Your Friendly Neighborhood Trash Guy_**

* * *

Oh, that's me. My handwriting.

This was the note I wrote for the janitors to find when I spontaneously emptied the entire IT office of their trash bags. Of course now in hindsight I realize I was completely delirious and running a fever. I am such an IDIOT.

"Friendly neighborhood trash guy?" Mr. Stark reads out loud, his voice on the more malicious side of sarcasm.

I don't respond.

"Do you think that we're all idiots here?"

"Uh - no..."

"Did you somehow think we weren't going to know who hacked the system?"

"I didn't really..."

"Did you think we wouldn't know if someone was on a monitor after hours?"

"The manager got the email this morning at 8 AM," I sigh. "I know..."

"How did you know tha..." Mr. Stark stops. "You know what - no. You don't get the satisfaction of my asking. I can assume if you rigged your AI to do a bunch of shit for you, you get a heads up on alert policies. Great. Wonderful. You broke into a highly secured area and tricked your AI into giving you data without hacking the real servers. Congratulations. Is that what you wanted?"

I shrug. I'm just going to take this for now. I deserve it.

"Is, it," Mr. Stark repeats, each word severe. "What - you - wanted?"

"I guess."

"I'm gonna need you to look at me," Mr. Stark says, so quickly the words all sort of blend together. "Hey. Big shot. Turn those baby browns up here for a second."

I look up. "What?" I ask, a little more tersely than necessary.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

I hold my gaze as steadily as I can. "Yeah."

"Was it worth it?"

I shrug again.

"No - that won't cut it. I need an answer. Now." I would imagine this is what normal kids call Dad mode. Papa Bear. About to get grounded, or maybe smacked within an inch of my life? Been there, done that.

"Why?" I ask.

"Why what?"

"Why do you need an answer?" I ask, part of me screaming at myself for not giving a clear response, the other part of me upset - at him - for being upset at all.

"Why?" Mr. Stark repeats in a very sarcastic, affected tone. He whips his glasses off the bridge of his nose and if he needs them gone in order to see into my psyche. "You don't need to know why. You. Are. A. Teenager. I do not need to explain my why. When I ask a question, you give me an answer." He wags his finger back and forth between us. "This is how this little mentor-mentee relationship is going to work." He slams his glasses back on his face. "Let's try this again. From the top. What were you doing?"

This gives me pause. "...using the monitor. I thought. Wasn't I?" I tilt my head. "Wait - did I screw something up? Did I like - turn on an electric beacon that summons aliens to Earth or alert the government to Captain America's whereabouts or..."

"Stop," Mr. Stark holds up a hand. "Just - chill a second. What were you using the monitor for?"

A metaphorical light bulb goes off over my head. "Happy didn't tell you."

"Happy called me this morning and said you decided to show yourself around the facility last night and use a computer. I was considering revoking all of your privileges - yes, AGAIN - even as far as taking your suit back for the second time - but he said you screwed up you're own recovery as a result, so, I took a rain check." Mr. Stark crosses his arms over his chest. "Consider this a merciful conversation we are now having."

"Yes, sir," I mumble quietly, looking down. "Thanks."

"Do you still feel like shit?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then, all right." Mr. Stark's shoulders lose some of the tension. "Maybe next time you listen to the grown-ups and stay the hell in bed when you're told to."

I nod... and he waits.

"I was watching the baby monitor videos," I confess.

"You what?" He asks this in a monotone - the kind that surpasses any normal level of disbelief.

So I was right. Happy didn't out me. Considering my stealing his badge, it's an oddly generous thing for him to do. Maybe he was giving me another chance - yet again - to just be a good person and try honesty on for size.

"You did WHAT?" Mr. Stark repeats.

"I watched the videos."

"How did you... how?" His eyelids flutter like he's trying to reason with himself, and physically can't. "Which videos?"

I shift uncomfortably. "The videos from Tuesday night."

"What the hell, kid?" he walks abruptly down the hall a few paces, turns, and marches back. "First off - why? Secondly - why the HELL? Thirdly - what the f... how the..." He stops and muddles his voice, making a sort of "MIND BLOWN!" motion with his hands at his temples, accompanied by a _bffffftttt_ sound. "Seriously - I'm - I'm at a loss for words. And that, kid, never happens. Usually never happens." He shakes the fog away. "What the HELL were you thinking?"

I wasn't, I think.

He bends down so he's balancing on the back of his heels, crouching in order to meet my cleverly aimed gaze so that I could avoid exactly this.

"Look," he says gruffly, "I tried to watch the videos - I told you this. I couldn't get through it - I was sick. Sickened. If you watched some... and felt..."

"All," I corrected.

"What?"

"I watched all of them."

"Jesus," Mr. Stark stands again, and then rethinks this, and grabs another chair against the wall. He drags it across the carpeted hall and pushes it next to mine, flips the back of his nice suit out just ever-so-slightly so it doesn't get crinkled against the wall, and sits down beside me. In a moment he, with some hesitancy and nearly in slow motion, pats my knee. "I'm not good at this part of the job..." he begins.

"The mentor/mentee thing?" I offer meekly.

"Yeah, that part. Where I actually mentor. Thanks for the reminder."

"I didn't mean..."

"It's fine," he pats my knee again and withdraws his hand. "I'm not a mental health doc. I don't know what to say. Nothing correct, or won't scar you for life. But I'm assuming watching those videos probably took care of that part."

"Maybe."

"What exactly were you planning on doing with this... knowledge? What's the point?"

"I just wanted to know what happened," I reply weakly. "That's all."

"Not some sort of - revenge spree, going after him in the middle of the night..."

"It's NOT like that," I reply fiercely.

"Just double checking - I can do that, right? I can't think of any other damn reason you'd want to watch that." He suddenly remembers something from earlier, and gets huffy about it. "and I'm shocked Happy didn't out you."

"He keeps giving me second chances," I mumble. "I stole his badge to access the tech room, so, I owe everyone an apology for that. But mostly him. After all he's done to help me - it was just - not good. I shouldn't have done that."

"That's not a big deal," he answers, looking at his nails as if bemoaning a lack of manicure.

"It seemed like it was a few minutes ago," I say, a little frustrated. "I thought you were mad."

"Not mad - no - I'm furious. Furious that you'd wander around a facility at night and make yourself sick with it. That's what I'm angry about. I can't be there to pick you up every time you break. And you keep breaking. Make sense?"

I don't answer. It does.

"When the hell did you find time to play housekeeper...?" he asks, holding his hands in the air and then slamming them down again, completely baffled.

"I - well - I was - there was a - a part that was really hard to watch, and I had a panic attack, and I felt sick, and I threw up - and then I - passed out," I mumble the last part. "So I thought I should clean up after myself."

"Jesus Christ. So you wake up on the floor - and then what? You're first instinct is to take out the garbage?"

"Yeah?" I'm confused. "I can't just leave that... in there? It's gross?"

"But you..." Mr. Stark pinches the bridge of his nose and fights off an inappropriately timed chuckle. "God. I will - never - understand - lawful good. I just don't."

"Were the janitors mad?" I question, truly confused.

"Of course not when Santa Claus does everything for them overnight," Mr. Stark swallows his laughter and sobers. "Did you hurt yourself? Last night?"

"Not - really. Just messed myself up a little. Fluids and sleep took care of it, I swear. I'm okay now. Really."

"What if you weren't?"

"Huh?"

"So what if we found you barely breathing and bleeding to death the next morning? Where does that leave your aunt? Your nerdy pals at school? Happy and I? We've grown sort of attached to you, you know. We want to keep you around for a long time." He sighs. "I've really gotten over the parts where we find you half-dead in random places. I don't have a heart condition, well - anymore - but I could certainly get another one."

He subtly checks his watch. A fancy watch on his wrist, the kinds that look like the famous kinds that cost thousands of dollars, but not any brand a person would recognize. It's the type of watch he can speak into and summon a whole army of Iron-Men, or press a button and instead of showing military time, an arm guard and palm-rockets appear out of the thick wristband.

Something about that gesture makes me feel... annoyed. Like I'm annoying him by taking up too much of his time.

"Hey," he says, rather tenderly, noticing my side-eye and being surprisingly observant. "That's nothing. Just checking to see how close we are to breakfast. Are you hungry yet?"

"I could eat."

"Okay. Well. Good. That's better than yesterday. You seen the doc yet this morning?"

"Not yet."

"Once doc gives you the OK, we'll take Aunt May down to the kitchen. There should be some breakfast left."

I don't really know how to respond. "Yeah, okay. Sounds nice."

"Give me one thing, though, before your doc gets all poky and personal."

I laugh a little bit. "Sure, what?"

"I want a promise."

"What sort of promise?"

"Promise first."

"Okay - okay. I promise. What am I promising?"

"If you need to talk - about - the videos. What happened. Or why you watched them. Or what it makes you feel like doing - Or why you felt the need to put yourself through that - just - talk to me. Even if it's something you're ashamed of - if this changes the way you think - or if you do something you regret. I'm not a priest, it doesn't have to be confessional. It doesn't even need to be a conversation. Just... give me a little... heads up. We'll chat. It's okay to try that. If you ever feel like it."

"...Thanks."

He places his hands on his knees like he's about to stand, but doesn't. He shifts, slightly, as if waiting to see if I say anything else.

I give in. "Mr. Stark - I just wanted to fill in the gaps. I didn't remember much."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"It made me feel powerless. Like it could happen again unless I knew the full story. And I needed to see what I did - if I did anything - that kept me living through it. In case I need to know how to do this again."

"Do 'this'? What's 'this'?"

"Live through something horrible. If it worked once..." I pause and take a deep breath, my voice trying to wobble. "It can work again. Does that make sense?"

"Sure, kiddo," Mr. Stark feels allowed to stand now. I follow his movements, and he stuffs a hand under my elbow to help me up the rest of the way. "That makes more sense than any other bullshit you may have tried."

"Sorry if it's... not what you wanted to hear."

"Screw what I wanted to hear," Mr. Stark squnches his eyebrows together. "As long as - as long as watching these didn't feed a murderous frenzy growing in your gut that takes you over and makes you do things you regret." He sighs, and puts his hand on my shoulder, leaning and looking directly into my eyes. He's so close to me it makes me want to cringe. "Speaking from experience, kid. Being captured and tortured - and held hostage - sometimes when you get out, you go completely berserk. Sometimes good things will come out of it. Other times... well, you already have the healthy response of becoming a masked vigilante out of the way, so we can scratch that off the list."

He quickly removes his hand and straightens up. "If you feel like going the other way... any time. I'm just a phone call away. Understand?"

"I understand."

"That's where that promise comes in. You've got to keep that promise to me."

"I will."

Mr. Stark lets out a sigh of relief, and gestures to lead me back into my room. I follow his dark suit back through the door.

...

 _Where... where is your jurisdiction...? Just so... I know... where to avoid._

 _Hell's kitchen... you stay away from that place. You'd sooner end up dead in a gutter than come anywhere close to me._

...

Sorry Mr. Stark - therein lies my flaw. I'm not honest.

"That's where that promise comes in. You've got to keep that promise to me."

 _I won't._

...

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REVIEW SHOUT-OUTS!

TheMysteriousT - Thank you for your awesome review! You really helped get me out of my writers block :)

Stargirl11 - Your wish is my command! More Tony bonding :)

parkerswebs - More father-son bonding is what I hope to see in the new movie too! At least until then I am trying to add that to my story for your dining pleasure lol :)

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Shoyzz - Nawww it's just messed up from Peter knocking it over earlier XD We're sort of done with physical whump for now - but plenty of emotional whump in the future. I've got some ridiculous drama planned for you guys!

BatmanSkittles17 - Keep writing! There is no such thing as writing that is a waste of time, especially fan fiction, it's SUCH good practice! :) Keep going!

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Queen of Crystallopia - BETAAAAA! FIFFER! Thank you for everything. Seriously. You're a gift to the literary world. Don't ever stop writing (and please always read my stuff too because it makes me so happy lol) XOXOXO

...

* * *

tune in next for:

WHAT THE HECK IS PETER DOING AT THE DAILY BUGLE?

WHY DO WE STILL NOT KNOW HOW HE GOT FROM THE STREETS TO THE AVENGERS FACILITY? (you will soon I promise!)

IS PETER GOING AFTER THE COP?!

We'll see... ;)

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Author's Public Service Announcement:

Remember when I said sometimes the things I write magically come true? Remember back in chapter like, 22 or 23 when Aunt May asks Happy if they cover Peter's dental work and he says "Yeah, just give us a call when his wisdom teeth start giving him trouble"?

Well I don't know if you follow Tom Holland on instagram (cough, I do, cough)

He just posted a video a few days ago of him waking up from... guess what... dental surgery... to remove a wisdom tooth XD

DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU.

(but seriously it's getting weird now...)

(hides)

* * *

Author's Public Service Announcement #2:

EVERYONE

GO READ THIS AMAZING STORY NOW

It's called "Paint it Black" by your very own beta Queen of Crystallopia

Hands down one of the best fan fictions I have EVER read. Do yourself a favor. Leave me a review first (pretty please) and then go read her story. You won't be sorry.

Usually links don't work so try copying this s/12696603/1/Paint-it-Black

at the end of the regular web address, or click on her profile and go find the story!

* * *

Next Quiz Questions! It's so much fun to get your answers, I love it...

* * *

Quiz: Weirdest holiday tradition that you and your family have. Go.

Mine: We pull the Nutcrackers out of their boxes. All three of them. A red soldier, a blue soldier, and a red drummer. My brother, sister, and father hold them in front of their faces and manipulate the handle in the back to make their mouths open very slowly...

And then they each let out a huge belch to make it look like the nutcrackers are burping.

Yeah. XD

* * *

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InstaFUN!

...

You can follow me on instagram pippin_strange. I'll be posting nerdy stuff (fan fiction, cosplay, writing, marvel, etc)

Drawing classes, D&D, friends, hipster stuff, and more on my regular instagram, myapapaya_adventures


	26. Lester

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My Silent Cohort;

Thank you very much my quiet ones for all the favorites and follows :) I am so glad you guys are enjoying my story. Don't be shy, though! Leave me some thoughts! I crave your reviews like peanut butter graves jelly! Like Tommy Wiseau craves LISSAAA! Like demadogs crave nougat! XD

Enjoy the update!

Love,

Pip

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THE DAILY BUGLE

...

...

"Excuse me," I say, to the woman working at the front reception area. "I'm - uh - looking for the - uh - wherever I need to go - to apply."

"You want to apply here?" the woman repeats dryly. She's middle aged and very _fierce_ looking. Her hair is done up in some sort of... tiny turban, the color of sapphire, and held together with a jewel. She's wearing one of those very _large_ tent dresses, the floral pattern loudly complimenting the headgear. "Here," she repeats. "At the Bugle?"

"Yeah?" I say, confusedly.

"How hold are you?" she asks, a little more kindly.

"Old enough," I reply tersely. Maybe I'm not, though. I don't know. Maybe I can intern for free and learn the ropes from a seasoned photographer who does the forensic picture-taking at a crime scene. That could be cool. "I mean," I amend, "Maybe - I can help out. After school. Learn something. And then... apply later."

"Like an internship?" she asks.

"Yeah, like an internship," I pull my crinkled resume I had typed up out of my backpack. "I have a lot of experience in that regard - see - I interned - for Stark Industries. For Tony Stark. Himself."

"Really?" she seems only mildly interested. She doesn't take my resume, but she leans over the counter a little to see it. "Hm. Well. That does qualify you for _somethin',_ anyway. Why don't you wait a moment." She presses an intercom option on her desktop phone. "Hey boss?"

No answer."

"Hey boss?"

There's a buzz, and a faint yell comes through the speaker. "GIT THE FRICK DANGLE BUCK OUT OF MY FACE AND CALL ME WHEN YOU HAVE A..." The buzz occurs again. "Sorry, Jolene, you were asking a question?"

Jolene rolls her eyes. "Boss, I have another kid for the internship."

"Internship? What internship? We're not hiring! Goodbye, Jolene!"

"You've been looking for an assistant for fourteen months."

"I had one!"

"You fired him."

"I fired Eric?!"

"And Eileen."

"DAMNIT, JOLENE!" a pause. "Okay, send him up."

Jolene gives me a level stare filled with... absolutely no pity at all. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

…

…

WEDNESDAY MORNING

…

...

"Call… Happy," I whisper.

"Happy? Who's Happy?" Brian is pulling his phone back out of his pocket, fingers poised and ready. "What's his number?"

I recite his number haltingly, each breath incredibly painful to take. It feels as if there's a steel rod shoved up my abdomen, running parallel to my spine, and stabbing me in the throat.

"Who is he?" Jeff asks. "Is it your dad?"

I shake my head blearily. I'm freezing. I can't think past any particular… question…

"Hey, it's okay, kid," Jeff reaches over to pat my shoulder. I flinch. "Hurts there too, huh?" he asks.

"They were… dislocated," I reply.

"What the hell?" Jeff replies. "And they're not _now?"_

"It's ringing," Brian waves a hand at Jeff to make him shut up.

"Hello?" says Happy's confused voice.

"Hello - uh - sir," Brian says awkwardly. "My name is Brian McGovern, I'm a paramedic in Manhattan. I, uh, have someone here that asked me to call you -"

"Who?" Happy asks sharply.

"I don't know his name, uh, sir, but it's Spider-Man. THE Spider-Man?"

"Why isn't he calling me? What's wrong with him?"

"He's been, uh, very - very badly injured, sir. Are you a parent? Or a guardian?"

"I'm worse," Happy growls. "I'm his handler." There's a strange clicking sound. "I'm sure you know I am tracing this call right now - " there's muffled voices in the background, as if he's shouting orders at god-knows-who and using some sort of high tech to pinpoint our location.

"Sure - okay," Brian says unsurely. "But I don't mind telling you where we are."

"Don't bother. It's done. We have your location. Talk to me. What are the extent of his injuries?"

"Multiple lacerations and stab wounds - broken bones - collapsed lung..."

"Damnit, damnit, damnit," I can hear Happy try to curse away from the phone. Still rings clearly. "Is he - how critical are we, here? Is he going to make it?"

"I'm going to go for very - very critical," Brian says. "Deadly injuries if not for - uh - perhaps super-human abilities at work here. He is _dangerously_ injured at this juncture. If you are his legal guardian, I would like to call for an ambulance, sir..."

"I must advise against that," Happy replies. "We'll take care of him here."

"Here?" Jeff mouths confusedly, unrolling a IV line and a bag of fluid.

"How do we get him to you, sir?" Brian rolls with it, giving Jeff a shrug.

"We're coming to you. Sit tight. Can you tell me what happened to him?"

Brian looks to Jeff for an explanation.

"You heard what I heard. He said he 'escaped'," Jeff shrugs. "Who the hell would do this... jesus."

"Is he conscious? Can he talk?" Happy asks urgently.

Brian looks down at me hesitantly.

I nod. "I want to." I use my right hand to try and push the oxygen mask off the rest of the way, Brian slowly pulls it up and over my head, eyes huge.

"How are you talking?" Jeff questions, but a sharp glance from Brian shuts him up. "I'm sticking this IV in your arm now," he whispers, apologetically. "You'll start feeling better _really_ soon."

"I think he's okay to talk for a minute," Brian says.

"Put him on," Happy commands.

Brian holds the phone up to my ear, careful not to touch any of the bruises on the side of my head from one too many punches.

"H-hey Happy," I say.

"Jesus Christ, kiddo. You're going to be okay. Okay? We're nearly there."

"Uh huh."

"What happened?"

"Long..." deep breath. "...story."

"We'll be there in... about one minute. We'll bring you back here."

"Here?"

"The complex. Got a whole med team here."

"O...kay." I see a tiny speck of light in the far distance - like a falling star - and get distracted by it.

"You hurt pretty bad?" Happy asks, even though he knows. As if he somehow needs me to tell him the paramedic isn't just pulling his leg.

"Y-yeah," I moan slightly. "Pretty bad."

"What happened? Short version."

"Uh… shot down... put in a car... tired up... for … a few hours. Got away." It's hard to try and summarize in a few words. Either I sound like I'm making it worse than it is, or I'm making light of it. "He... uh... wanted... information."

"Tortured, for a long time, I think," Brian interjects, tugging the phone back briefly. "What's your ETA?"

"Soon, nearly there - put him back on - please - just for another second," Happy sounds flustered, as usual, but worried beyond even his capacity.

Brian returns the phone to my ear.

"Who was it?" Happy asks.

"I don't... know," I lie. They'll have everything from Karen when she's back online, anyway. There's no reason for me to try and explain it now. "Happy… I need… aunt…" I bite back her name at the last second. As much as I am trusting Jeff and Brian right now, the less they know, the better. I won't risk revealing who May is - in turn - risk revealing myself. Even by proxy. These were good guys - but if someone like this whackjob got to them, they'd be goners. They didn't have super-fast-healing-powers resetting their systems every few hours and keeping deadly injuries from being just that.

"We'll get you first. Then her. I promise." Happy assumes I can't finish the sentence and fills it in for himself. "Is your AI disconnected?"

"Electro...magnet..." I mumble. Whatever is in the IV is lessening the pain. Probably morphine or something. Either way it's making me all woozy… My ears fill with a distant roaring sound, sort of line an approaching sports car. "Like a big… flash bang…"

Brian pulls the phone back. "Sir," he says, "Spider-Man's drifting off a bit. We finally got some pain meds into his system. Can we expect that - uh - this _transport_ you're arranging - will it be adequate to make sure my patient here doesn't die of blood loss and…"

The roaring isn't just in my head, it's everywhere now. Not so much a roar as it is an engine sound - growing higher pitched as it approaches. The light in the sky suddenly zooms around a distant skyscraper, black against the dark purple horizon. Definitely not a shooting star, unless they follow flight plans and have their own AI...

"What the hell?" Jeff gasps "Is that _Iron Man?"_

"Uh - sir," Brian says, "If - if you've somehow - sent _Iron Man_ to come collect him - I will strongly advise...no," his brow furrows and he frowns heavily. "I absolutely _forbid_ you from taking my patient up in the sky like a f*cking rag doll and exposing him to the cold air like that - he'd be dead when he arrives, I guaran-effing-tee." He pins the phone to his chest and looks at Jeff. "I'm calling it," he barks. "Call a bus."

Jeff's eyes are wide. "For real?"

"No, no! NOT for 'real'!" Happy's voice echoes right back, though slightly muffled. "Wait just a goddamn second!"

The sound of machinery grows louder, and Iron-Man descends over the street. The power of the thrusters in the legs and arms shorten, extend, and shorten again in bursts of light and the sounds of power-torches as they calculate landing in just the right spot - immediately next to us, on the street. The Iron suit stops, the glow behind the eyes looking robotically dead and intimidating with that slightly angry slant. It's not an ordinary suit. It's mostly silver, with white bands on either arms with a red plus-sign on either shoulder. The blue emblem on the chest looks familiar, like a coat of arms from some old-school pub.

I expect an angry Tony Stark voice to emerge any minute - only it doesn't.

"What exactly am I looking at right now?" Brian asks.

"It's a prototype medsuit," Happy says on the phone. "Just do exactly what it says. It's the safest ambulance you'll never see again."

The suit hisses like a train with steam and begins to unlace itself at the chest, abdomen, and in the seams of the legs and the arms, opening itself to reveal - no one at all. A few dragfins and flaps emerge from the shoulders and legs, condensing in shape like a transformer until the Iron-Man suit itself is shaped more like… a coffin than a person. It's eerie.

An A.I. voice comes from the mouth.

"Put him in."

...

...

THE DAILY BUGLE

...

...

When the elevator doors open on the floor that Jolene directed me to, I am astounded by the sheer chaos, and how I feel as if I just stepped back into 1955. The desks are open, littered with papers, desk after desk after desk... a maze of desks. There are people running around like crazy, carrying manila envelopes, phones ringing, people shouting at each other across the room - there's even someone smoking out on a balcony. I definitely thought smoking was out of style. First Jeff, then this guy.

The only thing that is missing is the typewriters. Instead, I see a lot of laptops. All the energy in the room seems to undulate and seize according to whether the doors - at the far end of the room - open, or close. And they do, often. When open, and shouts are heard within, and when they close, they slam - HARD.

I adjust my backpack straps and take a step into the noise, aiming for the big double doors where - supposedly - I will be speaking to _the boss._ J. Jonah Jameson himself. He purchased the building with his own money - built himself a tiny little newspaper empire, out of sheer will and hard work. It's hard not to admire that.

The room is crowded enough to be jostled this way and that as I try to step carefully through the aisle between desks. Men and woman run into me head on at times, step aside muttering a hurried apology, and then quickly move past. Others don't apologize at all. Some of them are self aware enough to dodge me.

I'm doing plenty of dodging on my own, focusing with a steel gaze upon the double doors. The more I focus, the more I don't notice the storm that is this office - it's almost too much for my brain to handle. Major sensory overload.

The doors open, and for a brief minute I catch a glimpse of the boss. He, too, has a steely look in his eyes, a no-nonsense expression - and he waves, briefly.

Surprised, I lift my hand to wave in return, when the doors slam abruptly again.

He was waving at someone to shut the doors, not waving at me. Huh.

I am now staring at the chest of a very… tall… and bespeckled assistant. He is so tall it makes me almost uneasy, glasses pinching his nose and his hair combed to a part, exactly like you'd expect a 1950s assistant to look. He is pinching a stack of envelopes and folders between his left elbow and his side.

I wonder if he's wearing suspenders under that brown suit, too.

"HELLO," he says, in a clipped down, a huge smile plastered on his face like a sticker. It looks unnaturally creepy. "You must be the one that Jolene sent up to meet us."

"Uh - yeah?" I reply, looking up at him and feeling very, very short, and a few years shy of all my fifteen years, even. This guy couldn't be more than twenty, himself, but he was still intimidating, for some inexplicable reason.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said, robotically, his smile still unchanging. "I'm Lester." He shakes my hand with a profound, clingy grip.

"H-h-hey," I say. "Nice to meet you too. Yeah. It's - uh - cool - here. Um. Am I supposed to go in, or…?"

"Ah, no, no, not at this time," Lester clasps his hands together in an oddly prayerful sort of pose. "We wouldn't want to make the boss mad, now, would we?"

"We won't?" I ask hesitantly, thoroughly confused. I feel like Lester _smelled_ crazy. Just twenty cats shy of a basket case.

"No, no, not today," Lester keeps on smiling.

"Are you - uh - his assistant?"

"Assistant - TO the assistant, Dan Buckley, who is _the_ assistant, to the one and only, J. Jonah Jameson," he corrects jovially. "But one day, my friend. One day. I will be the lead reporter - writing all the good ones, you know, on the big stuff."

I gulp. "Big stuff?"

"You know," he whispers conspiratorially, "Like the - Avengers? Spider-Man? The Devil of Hell's Kitchen? The bullet proof guy?"

I stare. "...what?"

"Oh, pfft, I must bore you with my career aspirations," Lester waved his hand. "I understand you have career aspirations of your own with our hallmark of the printing world. Where does your dream lie, hm? Crime writing? Household hints? Politics?"

"Uh, um, uh," I stutter. "Photography…?"

"PHOTOGRAPHY," Lester repeats, very loudly. Almost louder than I would like - but - it's a noisy room, and not a single person near us is giving a shit to our very odd conversation. "What a FINE endeavor, adding a strain of the visual arts to the _glory_ that is journalism. Very astute for someone so young." He beams at me.

"Um," I reply. "Thanks. I think. Yeah."

"WELL!" he barks. "I have kept you FAR too long! You must think I am just a chatter box! Let's get you started, eh? This is what the boss - gave to me…" he struggles with the stack of papers he had tucked under his elbow, bringing a manila folder out and handing it across to me. "He is entrusting you with this _very_ special task."

"What is it?" I ask, beginning to open it.

His hand slams down on top of the folder, the speed of it so sudden, my instinct wants to flip backwards onto the desk behind me. But I don't.

"Why not?" I ask, hoarsely.

"Well - it's - I don't know," Lester shrugs, the first human-like response I've seen from him this entire time. A tiny little crack in the strangely artificial interaction. "It's the boss. _I_ don't question the boss. He says - give the new guy this. Don't read it. Deliver it. It's _very_ important."

"Who do I deliver it to?" I ask. "Does this mean I have… a chance? Like at a job?"

Lester smiles. "Well, I see no reason why not? I mean - why else give you something to deliver? Maybe if you do this part well, he grants you an interview, you get an interview, you get an internship - get the internship - well," he threw a hand in the air. "The opportunities just appear, like magic. Anyhow." He tucks the envelopes back under his arm. "It needs to go to the basement. Last door on the left. Gerry Arbahje. He says you'll see the first initial and the last name on the door."

"Who's he?" I ask, getting sort of excited, holding the folder with both hands now. If Lester is right, maybe it's as easy as doing a good job with this, and I'm in. I could help Aunt May pay the bills eventually… earn money for college… do something real with my life.

"No idea," Lester tilts his head like a confused android on a science fiction show. "I've never met him. He must be new, too." He blinks away the question rolling around in his brain and seems to forget it instantly, smiling down at me again. "Good luck to you! Mr. uh, uh… dear me I forgot to ask for your name. How rude of me!"

"It's Peter. Peter Parker."

"Well it was my absolute pleasure to meet you, Peter Parker," he goes to shake my hand again, which I comply with. When he grips my hand, he gives me one sharp tug, and leans in uncomfortably close to my ear. "I would sincerely love it if you worked here. You are probably the nicest person I have _ever_ met." He lets go of my hand as if it turned into a fish and steps back. "Best of luck to you! Hopefully this is not the last time we see you!" Then he turned on heel like a precise marching band member, and stomped beautifully in tune to the crazy drum probably banging in his head.

"Bye, Lester," I say, uncertainly. He holds up a single hand in response, like someone who only knew what 'waving' was because they researched it on google.

But - I smiled, nevertheless. Even the crazy ones need friends.

"Okay," I say to myself, looking down at the folder in my hands. "All right. Uh… let's go find Gerry."

…

…

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Everyone please send internet hugs and thank-yousa's to Nindragon and Queen of Crystallopia! Nindragon has faithfully given careful consideration to the rating of the story and has helped me sift through my thoughts on that, and your beta, Queen of Crystallopia, makes sure the chapters are epic and ready for reading! Thank you my friends!

...

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tune in next for:

Peter is getting back on his feet - what adventures await him next?!

WHAT THE HECK IS A MEDSUIT?

Who is getting excited for a Ned/Peter reunion?

Who the crap is Gerry?

* * *

Author's Public Service Announcement:

GO READ THIS AMAZING STORY: "Paint it Black" by your very own beta Queen of Crystallopia

Usually links don't work, so try copying this s/12696603/1/Paint-it-Black at the end of the regular web address, or click on her profile and go find the story!

* * *

Quiz Answers - we're a little short on holiday traditions here on these, reviews, but thank you to those who responded! We'll do a variance of the same question. Next quiz question - what is your favorite thing about the holiday season? Go!

* * *

...

InstaFUN!

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You can follow me on instagram pippin_strange. I'll be posting nerdy stuff (fan fiction, cosplay, writing, marvel, etc)

Drawing classes, D&D, friends, hipster stuff, and more on my regular instagram, myapapaya_adventures


	27. Gerry Arbahje

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Dearest Readers,

There's so many of you! Thank you for the follows and favorites! I hope you enjoy this next chapter. Now that we've come full circle with some of the promised transitions from the street to the Avengers facility, we'll be moving more to the future - and Peter has a few more lessons to learn before this story is over.

Love,

Pip

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* * *

…

…

THE DAILY BUGLE

…

…

An odd sense of cheerfulness flutters in my chest as I walk back through the overwhelming barrage of noise in the main office. So, maybe this was the equivalent of asking me to go make the boss a cup of coffee, but I'm surprisingly OK with it. Maybe I get a job. Maybe I get mentored by someone who isn't… Tony Stark, although I can't imagine anyone but him. Maybe someone a little… calmer? Less… Iron-Man?

And then he realizes I have some sort of raw and underdeveloped talent - not for climbing walls - or saving lives - but for taking good pictures. And then I'm the youngest to win that Pulitzer for photo of the year - wait. Can you win a Pulitzer for photography?

I've never really imagined for myself a future that didn't involve science. Or Avenging. I always thought if I couldn't make the cut as a real Avenger… I'd probably go back and be a high school teacher for the science department, and then invent things in my spare time. Inspire others like me with talent for creating things.

But the urge to try photography, maybe even as a last-ditch effort to bargain with some higher power to let me survive Cooper's torture… it came out of nowhere. And even without a knife at my throat, or a psychopath pacing back and forth in front of me - I still wanted to try it, just for the hell of it. It's sort of scary.

But exciting.

I catch myself whistling as I step out of the main office and head back to the elevator, holding the door open for four others to get on, asking them which floor they need, letting everyone get off first before I hit the B button for the basement.

It's a very… very long descent. The elevator is old, and sort of jolty. Sometimes the light flickers.

I slap the folder in my hands, growing excitedly impatient. I think the last time I was in an elevator, it was plunging to an explosion of fiery death and I was saving my friends lives and Liz looked at me with those huge brown eyes…

Even MJ would be impressed if I got a job at the Daily Bugle! She was surprisingly unimpressed with my internship with Stark… or Ned announcing that I knew Spider-Man…

She's just not impressed by a lot, I guess.

I spontaneously put one foot on the railing around the middle of the elevator, hoist myself up, and stick one hand to the ceiling panels, and let myself dangle for the rest of the ride.

The elevator finally clunks to a halt, and I unstick myself and land lightly on my feet as the doors slide open. The basement hall is exactly how any basement hall would look. The walls are slightly yellow, paint peeling, a light flickers down at one end. A few doors on the right, a few on the left, all shut securely with signs like Janitor's Closet, Maintenance, Breaker Room…

"All right, Gerry," I say out loud, stepping into the hall and looking around, my cheer faltering by a milligram. "Where are they hiding you down here?"

My senses tingled ever-so-slightly… a distant suspicion just behind my ears, on the back of my neck… nothing dangerous, but a slight unease, like just before Aunt May discovers you actually didn't wash the dishes at exactly 6:30 pm like you said you would, and you realize it's 6:35…

Not speaking from experience or anything.

"Hello?" I say out loud, mentally marking this off the checklist as the one thing Ned would be telling me not to do in this scenario. Any minute now one of the office doors will open and some guy in a clipboard will startle me into webbing his face and giving myself away and then -

But, none of these are offices. Not a single one. So why the hell does Gerry get stuck down here?

I pause by the last door on the left end of the hallway and look up at the nameplate.

* * *

G .ARBAGE

* * *

Huh.

There's a hole where a screw should have been, badly placed in the middle of the word garbage. Which could easily be an interesting spelling of… Mr. Arbahje. Which I realized I've never seen in print, I only imagined some ludicrous spelling because it's a ludicrous sounding name. I place my hand tentatively on the handle, push the door in, and look inside.

It's a closet, and there's two large bins inside. One for garbage, one for recycling.

"Ha… ha… okay. Very funny." I look around, but there's no one else down here. Just me. I look down at the folder in my hands and open it, and find nothing but a bright yellow post-it note.

* * *

GET LOST

...try again when you're grown up

J. J. J.

* * *

Crestfallen, I reread the note, shut the folder with a huff, and push the door open the rest of the way, tossing the folder into the garbage bin. Fine. Thanks for wasting my time.

I turn to leave and feel a tug. Friendly, neighborhood…

Okay, okay, jeeze, conscience. Fine. Thanks for STILL wasting my time.

I go back in, grabbing the folder and removing the post-it note. I shove it in my pocket, and put the folder in the recycling bin properly, despite it being too full already. Then I carefully shut the door behind me so that nothing looks disturbed, and walk dejectedly back to the elevator.

As the elevator ascends back to the lobby level, I pull the crinkled post-it note out of my pocket, looking at it with furrowed eyes as if I would soon reveal a punch line written in invisible ink.

Nope, nothing. It's definitely a rejection.

The doors slide open and I step past Jolene at her desk. I'm aiming for the door, and surprised to hear her call after me.

"Hey - Skinny. Don't take it too hard - whatever it was," Jolene says. She's got a phone crammed between her ear and shoulder, and there's stock orchestral music playing while she waits on hold. Her hands are otherwise occupied… giving herself a manicure.

"Oh… uh, it's fine," I shrug it off. "Everything's fine."

"Mhmm," she gives me an arched eyebrow. "Well - like I said. I warned you."

"Uh huh," I say, looking down at the note. But then again…

I look up at her and smile. "It's not so bad. I, uh, got a referral."

"You got a what now?" Jolene repeats.

"Well - I mean - Mr. Jameson says - right here - I should try again," I hide the note behind my back. "Come back when I'm a little older. Signed it and everything."

She can't tell if I'm serious or not. "He actually suggested you re-apply?"

"Sure did." I know for a fact I will work for them - someday - and when I do, I stapling this note to a fully fledged resume, and a recommendation letter from Stark industries. I went in unprepared this time. It won't be like that next time.

"Well," Jolene examines her freshly painted nails and winks at me over the top of them. I can tell she's surprisingly pleased. "He must like you then."

I grin at her. "I guess that means you'll be seeing me around."

"Sure thing, Skinny. Good luck."

"Thanks," I smile at her and turn precisely on heel, imagining something along the lines of the beat that Lester probably hears every time he walks anywhere at all.

The post-it note, signed with J. Jonah Jameson's initials itself, goes on the corkboard in my room. Right along side a science award certificate from grade school, a worn photo of my parents from the mid-eighties.

A reminder to go back and try again. Someday.

…

…

WEDNESDAY MORNING

…

…

Jeff and Brian stare at the medsuit in shock.

"I strongly advise against this," Brian says in a monotone into the phone, not taking his gaze off of the suit.

"I strongly advise not keeping it waiting," Happy intones.

"It's okay," I mutter, trying to push myself up on one elbow. "This… stuff… happens… all th' time."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Brian says quickly, shoving one hand underneath my shoulder to give me some stability. "You - don't need - to go anywhere."

"Hey!" begins Happy.

"Yet," amends Brian. "Jesus. Can you - I don't know - like - make the thing lie down?"

The medsuit contracts and lowers backwards to the ground, making whirring and metallic sounds like a transformer. Jeff is staring at it like he may never fully recover.

"Tell the kid I'll see him soon, I'm going to track down his aunt," Happy says.

"He says he's going to find your aunt," Brian repeats back to me, looking astonished at the revelation that I have an aunt. "And he'll see you soon."

I nod. "O-okay."

"I guess we help him into that," says Jeff.

"You're going to need a new career," Brian snaps.

"I know," bemoans Jeff, standing up and brushing himself off. "We're so getting fired. Let's do this."

"Anyone coming?" Brian asks.

Jeff peers down the street. The lights of the emergency vehicles flash, yellow, red and blue, splaying against the sides of the buildings like disco lights. But they're all back behind the police barrier around the corner of the nearest building.

"Nope," he replies.

"Okay," Brian says. "I gotta put the phone down, now, sir."

"I've got a line in the suit," Happy responds. "Do what you need to. And be quick about it, please, and thank you."

Brian sets his phone down and grasps the side of the tarp beneath me. Jeff grabs the other side.

"One, two, three!"

They hoist me up; non too gently but fast enough. I'm lying inside the hollow suit before I've even had a chance to notice. Whatever is in the IV is definitely working.

"Ow," I mumble. But I don't remember feeling the thump of being placed inside.

"Godspeed, I guess," Jeff says somewhat worriedly, tucking the IV down by my leg. "I am assuming this thing'll… uh… close up like a rocket and transfer you all safe and sound to some hidden base for enhanced gifted peeps with cool powers and…stuff."

"Uh huh," I mumble. "Pro'bly."

My arms don't go into the arm-shapes of the medsuit like they would on a real Iron suit. They remain at my sides, these suit-arms are primarily for steering, not for potentially placing broken limbs. Same with the legs - they only look leg-shaped, but they're sealed together like a sleeping bag, allowing me to stretch out inside. With a whir, they actually withdraw slightly to make up for the height difference. At least I won't be sliding up and down inside going one-hundred-miles-per-hour. But that doesn't make me comfortable. I feels like sitting in a desk at school.

"Take care of yourself," Brian says stoically, frowning heavily. "If you - uh - if you get jostled around too much in there and start bleeding again, you'll probably lose consciousness… you'll get to where-ever and probably get rushed into surgery. They'll fix up anything damaged by that stab wound in your side, here. Probably getchya a transfusion - you know - from the blood loss… and… well, it's out of our hands now. Just so you… feel prepared." He suddenly looks away and clears his throat. "Be good, kid."

"Th-thanks for helping me," I say nervously. I can hear it in his voice. He thinks this is a bad idea. He hates the idea of sending someone he's helping into a prototype invention that will go skyrocketing at top speeds towards a place that is not a hospital he's ever heard of.

"You're welcome," he replies, emotionally. He taps the side of the medsuit.

Jeff nods at me. "Kick ass, lil guy," he says, followed by a gesture at his forehead like he's pulling down the edge of a non existent cap.

"Preparing transport," says the AI voice again, a masculine, robotic tone that sounds like an odd sort of mix of Vision, Mr. Stark, and someone whose nose is getting pinched.

Jeff and Brian both scramble back. Jeff is wringing his hands, looking back and forth from me to Brian. Brian looks upset still, an inner debate raging in his head that I couldn't possibly guess. I don't know much about paramedics… but I am guessing this breaks every rule in the book.

Then the medsuit makes a hydraulic whoosh sound and shuts, sealing me up inside like a tomb with legs.

"Hear me okay, kid?" Happy's voice is somewhere in the pitch black. "I got a doctor waiting there for ya. He's going to take over this channel in a second. I'm on my way to get your aunt."

I can feel the suit move around me, the sounds of the thrusters activating and a strange warmth coming from the feet. I have no idea what it looks like from the outside - still coffin shaped? Or do I look like Rhodes volunteering for the Red Cross?

"Ya hear me?" he repeats.

"Uh huh," I shudder with uncertainty. "A-a-any chance we could get some l-l-ight in here?"

"Initiating emergency interior control." The AI answers creepily.

Much like the AI in my spider suit… when it's working… there's a screen where my eyeline should be, showing me the outside, but with animated graphics in 3D showing me things I don't really care about; like how the suit is pumped with the same sort of oxygen from a normal mask to help me breathe… my vitals and temperature... likely chances of surviving the flight…

Wait, what?

The suit takes off.

Like being in a roller coaster with your eyes shut, the speed feels incredible - I just can't - see it. The suit does little to quiet the wind rushing by, as loud as being on the back of a motorcycle.

The percentage disappears before I really have a chance to look at it. A lot of things are clicking, changing, and moving from eyeline to peripheral vision and then disappearing. It's making me sick. On the plus side, though, there are tiny lights, like the dashboard of a car. At least it's not nothing.

"Well - this is," I struggle to find the right words. My ears are ringing a little. "...weird."

"We are three minutes from our destination," says the AI.

The suit banks a hard left, and despite the fact I am completely compacted inside with no room to wriggle around, the speed of the movement jolts me in all the wrong places. I let out a surprised cry of pain, followed by a long groan.

"What's that?" Happy says. "What happened? What's wrong?"

"Shit," I say, trying to shift slightly. There's not a lot of room to do anything, but I am able to lift my arm slightly and touch my side. I'm bleeding again, like Brian thought I might. "Shit - I'm just - I don't know, Happy," I say this childishly, as if he asked who really ate the last cookie, and I stand nearby with crumbs in my hands. "I'm bleeding again and I feel sooooo…" my voice trails off. "Can you tell - the thing - to take - it slow?"

"Not really an option, kid," Happy says. "We have medical personnel here."

It's hard to concentrate in the darkness I am submerged in, the colors of the panels blinking out and disappearing on me, then returning and feeling too bright. It's not the suit, though, it's me. My brain is firing up all kinds of wrong signals.

"You're almost here," Happy encourages. "Just hang on."

"Your blood pressure is dipping below the recommended average," says the AI.

"Okay - putting the doc on, now, okay?" Happy says. "I promise. We're going to take care of you."

Enough blows to the head and this happens. I check out - mentally, physically. It's like being unconscious but not. A haunted sort of nap.

Due to whatever is in the IV, I don't know that I'll remember much of this. I am barely remembering it now - I struggle to remember even getting in. I don't remember how long I've been in it. Brian and Jeff are shadows; voices that brought me out of one hell and then deposited me into something a little less hellish but still not going into a top five. Faces I remembered clearly one minute ago begin to deteriorate.

I don't know what's happening to me. There's too much lightheadedness. The panels glow icy blue and my head feels as if it is swelling like a balloon. There's a sort of body odor I can smell now - my own - a mix of sweating so much while being tortured, and the fresh blood soaking through the gauze on my chest and side. The pungency of it makes me severely nauseous.

So this is what it's like to be dead, I think.

The suit seems to come to a stop. For a moment, I imagine waking up to bright lights, and the faces of doctors and nurses. Clearly a hallucination, though, if I'm dead.

"Just hang on."

Hanging…

I picture Officer Cooper's face, smiling at me sickeningly. Part of me wishes to try and lift my arms up, defensively, waving away at the face and making sharp protests. I hear some cries of alarm, but I'm soon immobile, and unable to move anything further.

Worse than the darkness of the suit is the claustrophobia of not knowing where I am or who is looking down at me now. Wondering with bewilderment if I'll get to see Aunt May ever again, or Ned, or Michelle, or Liz, or Mr. Stark, or Happy…

Wondering who I am, and why the pain and fear is replaced by nothing at all.

…

...

* * *

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Everyone bow before your beta, Queen of Crystallopia, who is not only beta-ing my story, but writing her own epic story as well. See below for more info to help you find it!

...

* * *

tune in next for:

WILL PETER TRY TO TRACK DOWN COOPER?

HOW WILL HE ADJUST TO SCHOOL AGAIN?

WHAT ELSE COULD POSSIBLY HAPPEN?

* * *

Author's Public Service Announcement:

GO READ THIS AMAZING STORY: "Paint it Black" by your very own beta Queen of Crystallopia

Usually links don't work, so try copying this s/12696603/1/Paint-it-Black at the end of the regular web address, or click on her profile and go find the story!

* * *

Quiz Question - If you could have any super power EXCEPT the main three, super strength, flight, or invisibility... what more obscure power would you like to have? How would you use it?

* * *

...

InstaFUN!

...

You can follow me on instagram pippin_strange. I'll be posting nerdy stuff (fan fiction, cosplay, writing, marvel, etc)

Drawing classes, D&D, friends, hipster stuff, and more on my regular instagram, myapapaya_adventures


	28. Simple Gifts

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My Dear Readers,

Thank you so much for the favorites and follows! It means so much to me! I am glad you are enjoying my little story.

As always,

Pippin

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* * *

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BACK AT HOME

…

…

When the package arrives on my bed, much like it did last time, I hesitate to open it. I walk over to my desk, put my backpack down, pull out a textbook. I am still feeling behind, even though I technically only missed three days of school. I have a lot of studying.

"Came in a few hours ago," Aunt May says, rubbing a dishtowel over a plate's edges. She leans against my door frame, her eyes looking tired.

"At least it's in a box this time and not in a lunch sack," I say, not looking at her.

"And at least your aunt is going to walk in on you playing dress up with it again," she says, looking down at the plate, and shifting her weight. "I suppose this means you'll be heading out tonight when you're done with your homework."

I tap a pencil agitatedly in the seam of the textbook, the words blurring together.

B squared… minus… 2A? Or… hm.

Usually math and science come a little more easily to me that, say, learning the trigger events for World War I or trying to remember the difference branches of government or how a stock market works. But today, I'd almost be rather looking at my least favorite subjects and avoid formulas. I just can't concentrate on them now.

"Yeah," I say, turning and looking at her finally. "I'll be heading out tonight, when it gets dark. Just do a few rounds. Check on the nearest streets, atms, alleys... People walking home alone - closing up shops - that sort of thing."

Aunt May gives me a ghost of a smile. "You make it sound so safe."

I smile back. "Yeah, well, it is, if I'm there."

She nods, not able to be fully supportive, but proud of me, nevertheless. "Come find me before you leave," she says heavily. "And - please make sure all the, uh, gadgets on that suit work properly. I mean it."

"I will, I promise."

When she leaves the room and I hear the kitchen sink turn back on, I try to concentrate on homework a while longer. Negative B plus OR minus B squared, minus 4ac divided…

It's a weird sort of mental exercise going back and forth from decathlon studying, which has more advanced mathematics and science questions, to then go back to the regular textbooks for ordinary tenth graders and seeing a confusing difference.

These are _easy_ equations, except for the fact I'm writing them incorrectly all the time. It isn't a lack of understanding of the subject matter; it's the distractions.

I launch myself out of the chair, divebomb the bed, and tear open the box, lifting out the shiny blue and red fabric from it's depths.

It's my suit; either the same one repaired, or a new one with the same design, I can't tell. According to Mr. Stark's promise, it's been personally upgraded by himself. It's not in any danger to - or, we can hope - electromagnetic pulses shot from the gun of a mad man.

I shudder and drop the suit, bending my head over the box for a moment and taking a deep breath. I am so ready to get out there and be Spider-Man again. I've missed it - missed him? - missed who I am, with it. And there's a part of me absolutely terrified to do so.

Casey Cooper knows who I am. He knows my name. What's stopping him from inviting himself over to dinner? Coming to the street below my window and looking up?

Mr. Stark assured me this would be a non issue. I don't know what sort of security measures he was promising - facial recognition on our door? Our mailbox? A security detail on him in Hell's Kitchen following all his moves? Or a simple car-tracker and some manager will get an email if it drives too closely to our apartment?

But what if Officer Cooper doesn't alert anyone by coming to the apartment, what if he's smarter than that? I don't know how long he followed me before he found me. Maybe he set the fire at the apartment himself to trap me - maybe he just drove to a disaster and hoped I'd show up. What's to stop him from following Aunt May around in _her_ car, and then pulling her over with some bull shit story about speeding and then kidnapping her and doing the same things to her that he did to me - only she would die. There's nothing enhanced about _her_ healing abilities, unlike my own.

My hand trembling ever so slightly, I open my phone and google _Hell's Kitchen police Casey Cooper._ I don't have the benefit of the Avengers compound resources, so there's very little to find. Eventually, I do find an article about a pancake breakfast hosted by the precinct, and there's a photograph of two cops at a fold-out table, dishing up pancakes for a long line of happy people standing nearby. They're holding their spatulas victoriously and smiling for the camera.

One of them is Casey Cooper.

…

…

BACK AT SCHOOL

...

...

Entering such a place of normalcy gives me a weird sense of deja vu. Back from hell - but from their perspective, a bad case of the flu. How am I supposed to behave differently - or the same?

I push open the doors and walk into a thick stream of people. A few of them say hello, and I nod back with my own hellos pitched just a little too high.

 _I'm trying too hard!_

I open the locker and find everything where I left it last Tuesday. How has it been less than a week?

"Dude, you're back!"

I whirl around to greet Ned. "Hi," I squeak. "Yeah - I'm back…"

"It's good to see you!" Ned reaches for my hand and we begin an age old routine, a handshake we developed before we realized secret handshakes were only acceptable by our peers in elementary school.

"You too, man," I reply, already sounding exhausted. And the first bell hasn't even rung yet.

"So - like," Ned narrows his eyes and leans in far too close to my face. "You look pretty okay to me. Are you still worried about looking like you got beat up?"

"Shhh, no," I glance around worriedly, then lower my voice. "DO I look like I got beat up?"

"I mean, you have really dark circles under your eyes. But we're teenagers, we don't sleep anyway." Ned reaches up with a short finger and gently prods one side of my face. "Is it make up?"

"No, cut it out," I fight off a snicker and knock his hand away. "It's - it just clears up, quickly, that's all. I've been doing this for a while now? Right? You don't ever remember seeing me show up to school with a black eye or a busted lip or anything, do you?"

"Not… that I recall," Ned nods with a smile. "It's a super-cool-fly stealthy skill to have."

"Yeah, well," I collect the book I need and dig for a calculator. "It's probably the only reason I'm here."

"At school?"

"Alive," I clarify.

"Shit, bro," Ned whispers. "You gotta meet me at the field for lunch. Tell me EVERYTHING."

"I - I can't, I have to go to the library and try to make up some of the stuff I missed."

"I'll go with you!" he promises. "I can help."

"It's - it's okay, you don't have to do that."

He pauses. "I mean, if don't want me to..."

"But if YOU want to," I add simultaneously.

"This is confusing," Ned replies. "I'll be there - but - seriously - you have to tell me everything."

I shrug. "There isn't much to tell, man, sorry - I wish there was - but - I was, y'know, like, unconscious. For a lot of it. I don't remember much."

"What about all that cool stuff we found on the drive in your suit while we were in Washington D.C.? Isn't there anything in there that could tell us what happened? Like the program that watches everything you do and reports it to the Avengers?"

"Oh, that?" I wave a hand over exaggeratingly. "Not like that - not at all, ppfftt, no - no - there's no existence of that sort of thing, and we couldn't even find out if we wanted to. It's all on highly protected secure servers even if there was anything."

"Ooooh," Ned says, eyeing the crowded hallway around us suspiciously. "Gotcha. They probably hoard all that data and we'll never really know."

"Yes, yes, exactly!" I exclaim over-eagerly. "That's all long gone. So I… I had a bad time… but luckily it's over now and I don't need to think about it anymore." I slam the locker a little too loudly. One or two heads swivel our direction as they walk by.

I hesitate to put myself in a position where he expects me to tell him every gritty detail. If I can't even explain it to Aunt May, how could I explain it to my best friend? There's a part of me that hates to expose the weakest parts of myself to someone who already finds me cool enough to be friends with in the first place. Why risk changing anything and exposing Ned to this side of the world of being a masked hero. Let him stay the same kind of friend who asks me questions like if I spit poison or have Thor's cell number. Not the guy who knows I could get killed by any guy with a big enough gun.

The less people in my life that know I could go out just like my uncle - the better.

The first morning bell rings.

…

...

* * *

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Beta Appreciation!

As ever, all the thanks in the world to Queen of Crystallopia, who is not only beta-ing my story, but had to put up with MULTIPLE text messages about how much I hated the movie I was watching on my computer tonight XD And she handled it like a legit queen.

Do yourselves all a favor and NEVER EVER watch The Lost City of Z even though it has our mutual favorite, the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, Tom Holland himself. Unless you have a strong stomach. I literally got sick at the end, not because of anything shown at all, but the LACK of showing what happened and leaving the worst to imagination, and the sheer, visceral power of the emotions of the main actors facing certain death. I literally felt like I was watching real people about to die - NOT COOL, Lost City! Not cool!

...

* * *

tune in next for:

HINT... MORE PLOT DEVELOPMENTS.

* * *

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

Hi kids, this is Captain America, encouraging you to be sure to spend some time reading this week. Reading is proven to expand the mind and jumpstart creative problem solving.

GO. READ. THIS. AMAZING. STORY. NOW.

"Paint it Black" by your very own beta Queen of Crystallopia

Usually links don't work, so try copying this s/12696603/1/Paint-it-Black at the end of the regular web address, or click on her profile and go find the story!

* * *

Review Replies -

Queen of Crystallopia: THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING AND LETTING ME RANT ABOUT TINY HITLER! Shapeshifting would be SO amazing. And thank you so so so so much for still reviewing, it is so good for my ego XD Thanks for the note on the atmosphere of the medsuit - definitely curious how those sensations come across to readers! Thank you!

MagicWarriorDragon - ALL good choices for super powers! I bet with super powers you would also totally become a real superhero.

Holly - SQUEAL! Thank you SO much for your comment! It made my week

AquaJinx - Also a wise choice :)

* * *

Next Quiz Question -

If you had to take your favorite non-Marvel actor/actress and cast him/her in a Marvel movie, who would he or she play? What movie would it be?

I think most of my favorites are in Marvel movies, so it's hard to pick one. I think Jake Gyllenhaal would fit in quite well in the universe. I want to see him in a new origin story for another obscure hero that needs to be be brought to life (as they are FINALLY doing with Captain Marvel and Black Panther).

* * *

...

InstaFUN!

...

You can follow me on instagram pippin_strange. I'll be posting nerdy stuff (fan fiction, cosplay, writing, marvel, etc)

Drawing classes, D&D, friends, hipster stuff, and more on my regular instagram, myapapaya_adventures


	29. A Spider State of Mind

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My Silent Cohort of Readers -

I see your follows and favorites and I raise you a review. The stakes ain't high and you know your words are worth more to me than gold! ;) I am a starving artist who gains sustenance by reading your reviews...! I've been very hungry lately! That makes me sound like a creepy vampire... I swear, I'm not. (hisses at the sun)

Enjoy the next chapter!

My love,

Pip

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THE STREETS

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One, two, three -

Four, five, six -

Huh, six.

I flex my shoulders and crack my neck from side to side, hopping a little in place. A few of the men look at me, and then at each other, confusedly.

"In case you didn't notice, spandex," says the first in a thick Brooklyn accent, the glint of a gun visible just over his belt. He places his hand casually on the pistol's grip. "There's six of us, and one-a you."

I hold out my hands in a oops, I did break the thing sort of way, calculating just how close I am to the one who spoke, a giant brute of a guy with a typical baggy-jean, XXL army jacket appearance.

"Uhhh," I stutter. "You know," I reply, "Usually I'd have something to say - but - I'm a little rusty." From each wrist, webbing shoots out in one - two - three - rapid fire successions, followed by the second set - one, two, three - the webs smack in small, snowflake-like patterns on eyes, mouths -

One of the guns goes off - I don't know whose, but I'm already springing up and over their heads, twisting midway and landing behind them, letting loose the same web combination.

"One for you, one for you, another for you, two for you," I narrate out loud when webbing collides with each most immediate threat - the hand on the gun, a cellphone in another's hand, the guy already with one small firearm in each hand. Some of them are trying to move out of the way, and the formation breaks.

It's a little harder to get the bad guys when they all move in a panic in different directions.

"Wait, hold up," a strand of web shoots out, catches one guy around the ankle like a lasso, and knocks him heavily onto his stomach. I yank my arms back, simultaneously leaping in the air and planting my feet firmly against the back of the closest man who just didn't have time to react in any way at all.

The one I am reeling in like a fish flies backwards, arms spinning crazily, colliding with the man I just kicked into him. They both crash together, knocking into another, whose hands are fused together with web. As one last preventative move, I give them matching web-anklets, cinching them up tightly together, and for good measure, stick them to the guy who was standing there dumbly with webbing over his eyes. He had made the strange, if slightly logical decision, to stand completely still and not try and do anything at all. Being blinded by the webbing, he lets out a surprised gasp with the other two suddenly barrel into him, and the three of them go down like pins.

I sidestep the human bowling game and run down the alley a few steps to catch up with the others, who thought it was a great idea to run for the dead end.

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BACK AT HOME

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I fling myself from my bed and rush out of my room, sliding across the slick floor and bouncing off the hall wall. I hear a startled yelp from Aunt May before I try to slow down around the corner and casually walk into the kitchen.

"Slow down, speedy," she says, whirling around. "You'll break our apartment."

"Sorry," I say. "I - uh - wanted to discuss something with you."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Something important."

"Okay," she straightens up, throws her towel to the side, and shuts the sink off. "Talk to me."

"Uh, first," I say, clasping my hands behind my back. "I need you to make me promise…"

"What is it?"

"Promise first."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "I… suppose."

"Say it," I argue. She'd find a way to get out of it unless I made her say the exact words.

"Alright, I promise," she holds up her hands in surrender. "What is it?"

"I… I overheard bits and pieces of your conversation with Mr. Stark," I say.

"Which one?" She narrows her eyes.

"When he wanted to keep you in the dark about - the cop," I hesitate. "For your own safety."

"Yeah," she wags her finger at me, "Not a fan of that, by the way. We could still press charges - I mean - I could. An adult."

"Just - Aunt May - slow down, for a second, please," I struggle, "Let me - just - get this out while I still have the nerve."

She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry. Go on."

"A few things," I say, pulling my hands from behind my back, agitatedly twirling my phone in my hand. "There's more than what - we know. Pressing charges against him is dangerous. One, we don't know who he is working for. It could be someone far more worse, or dangerous, than himself. It's not fair to either of us to put ourselves in his way without knowing the full story."

"What if we never know?"

"Then we move on," I sigh with resignation. "The other thing is, we try anyway, even if it's in our favor - everyone learns my name - your name. All this would be over as we know it. I'd have to sign the Accords. We wouldn't be safe here anymore - I don't know if they'd let you come with me - but I'd probably have to move to the complex. Then everything would have to come from the government."

"Isn't that precisely what you told me about before that night?" Aunt May asks. "I thought that sort of belief is what made Captain America the bad guy."

"No, I'm not saying I'm going to be a fugitive or anything, I'm just not ready for the commitment yet," I reply. "Maybe I… maybe I go to college instead."

Aunt May lets a faint smile creep over her lips. "Yeah. Maybe you do."

"So maybe the government gets my name - or the cop does. And he blasts it to criminal circles and places you, and me, in danger… and maybe someone worse than him gets it before you and I are whisked off to a secure location."

"But it's blackmail," Aunt May's brow furrows.

"I guess. But it's different. Maybe nothing happens at all."

"That's a huge risk."

"It's riskier than taking the bet." I lean against the counter and take a deep breath. "This is where the promise comes in. I think Mr. Stark is wrong about you. As much as you would go into - uh - crazy mode… I think you're smart enough to not grab the nearest baseball bat and chase after this cop." I squint as I hesitate. "Even if you know his name."

Her eyes narrow. "Peter…"

"You promised."

She softens. "I did."

"And he's off limits," I say firmly. "Even if you ran into him in a dark alley and you had the opportunity to bash his head in with - uh - a pipe - you don't. You turn and you walk away."

"Okay, okay, chief," she raises her hands defensively. "I promised - I keep my promises." She lowers her hands, and her tone is careful. "You found his name when you hacked the complex computers, didn't you?"

I nod, a little shamefully. "Facial recognition." The screen had timed out. I click the phone on again and hand it across to her. "But I show this to you with a condition."

She takes the phone with trepidation, her expression neutral - and yet frightening - as she looks over the picture of Officer Casey Cooper. "He looks so… normal." She mutters a few expletives and puts her hand over the screen for a moment, unable to look at him for too long.

"Yeah," I repeat uncomfortably. "Normal."

"I wouldn't have known him from any other cop."

"That's why I am showing this to you." I take a shuddering breath. "If- if you - were to see him - I don't know, if he pulled you over or something - or he drove by the apartment - or he shows up at your work - if he comes near you at all - "

"He won't," Aunt May hands me back my phone. "Mr. Stark said…"

"It doesn't matter," I interrupt. "Mr. Stark has been wrong before."

She pauses. "Yes. He has."

"I want you to know what he l-l-looks like so you can run, away…" my words are starting to jumble over each other. If I don't slow down and take deep breaths, I'll either have a panic attack, burst into tears, or both. "I - I don't know - what would happen - if he's in uniform, and if you were to run into him in public - he has the advantage to abuse his power. We already know what he might be capable of…"

"Then why don't you want to press charges?" Aunt May asks gently. "Aside from… I mean, aside from the fact the physical evidence is healing too super-fast, and your secret identity… I mean - if this is about me, Peter, uprooting my life and then you sign the accords and go public - maybe it'd be worth it, you know? Maybe he is the one going away, and…"

I shake my head vehemently. "Too much of a risk." I bow my head and take another shaky breath. Deep breath in, long breath out. Deep breath…

Aunt May puts her arms around me and gives me a big hug, gives me a smacking kiss in my hair, and steps back. "We'll get through this," she says with assurance. "This is… a lot more complicated than just a kid who refusing to cooperate with a figure of authority."

I fight back a smile. "You being the figure of authority."

"I'm always a figure of authority." She looks at me questionably before stepping backwards to the sink, as if trying to ascertain if my state of mind is requiring further comfort and full attention, or if I am hovering somewhere between semi-okay and normal. "What you want matters to me," she says carefully. "So if you aren't ready to sign and go public - and would rather hope that Stark's precautions are good enough and this bastard never does something like this again - then - we'll do it your way. For now."

"Thank you." I begin to leave the kitchen, and then pause, looking back. "What precautions, exactly?"

She shrugs. "I don't really know, he didn't elaborate much more than his team would have eyes on him at all times and you had nothing to worry about until you agreed to press charges."

Hm. Typical.

"Not going to happen."

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Everyone thank your beta, Queen of Crystallopia. I think a Ned quote from the Spider-Man Homecoming gag real is the most fitting, "Thank you for allowing me to be part of your journey." XD

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tune in next for:

Everybody was Kung Fu Fiightiiiiiing!

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Don't forget to check out the latest chapter of "Paint it Black" by your very own beta Queen of Crystallopia

Usually links don't work, so try copying this s/12696603/1/Paint-it-Black at the end of the regular web address, or click on her profile and go find the story!

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Next Quiz Question -

What would you like most to see happen in this story? We've done a version of this question before, but it was quite a few chapters ago. Mostly what was requested was more Tony Stark! Which I did ;) What else would you like to see?

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InstaFUN!

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You can follow me on instagram pippin_strange. I'll be posting nerdy stuff (fan fiction, cosplay, writing, marvel, etc)

Drawing classes, D&D, friends, hipster stuff, and more on my regular instagram, myapapaya_adventures


	30. Girl on Fire

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Dearest Silent Cohort,

Thank you so much for all of your favorites and follows. I see more and more every day, and it's very encouraging! I hope you are enjoying my lil' story. It's gonna be a long one. I decided not to break it into two books, I worried about losing my followers by shifting gears too much. There's definitely more to the story, though, so I'll just keep posting here! We're gearing up for the grand emotional finale, as it were, and hopefully bringing us to a place that makes sense where Infinity War will pick up.

Please consider leaving me a review with your thoughts!

Hugs,

Pippin

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THE STREETS

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All three of these desperate individuals are trying to make their escape by crawling up the chain link fence separated the end of this alley from another, running in a T shape on the backs of these decrepit, run-down commercial buildings. My lenses constrict and widen as I roll my eyes. I place my hands on the building beside me and scramble up hand over hand, till I am leaning precariously from the corner to look down at the three men struggling up the fence. Their shoes are too big to make good contact, so they're relying on arm strength alone.

"Aw, man, you guys climb too?" I say from above. "It's hard to find people with similar interests…" They look up in horror, and I let myself fall down on top of them, knocking two of them back into the ground. One of them remains clinging wildly to the fence, but I grab the back of his jacket and pull him down, shoving him to the asphalt. Another is attempting to pull a knife from inside his jacket, but the webbing from before is making him stick to himself.

I kick his arm to keep him from reaching further, and let out another volley of web, strands lengthening between the wall, themselves, their ankles, their faces -

Panic sets in when they see the gauzy substance thickening, becoming less of just a weird string pulling their limbs closer and more of a confined blanket, pinning their arms to their sides -

I send off one last strand, up to the edge of the building, I give it one last mighty heave and the whole group of them are hoisted far into the air, cocooned together and shouting in muffled tones, like those old fashioned net-traps in a Robin Hood movie.

"Hang in there," I say encouragingly, patting the mound a little too hard as I trot by. The bundle of them begin to swing from side to side, their muffled shouts from inside growing more sickly and agitated.

I head back to the mouth of the alleyway to find the first three, struggling to detach themselves from each other, half-raised on elbows and shaking their heads back and forth, trying to communicate with large eyes.

I make a tsk sound and kneel down to be eye-level with the one who told me I was outnumbered. His eyes are wide with fear as I stare back at him, faceless except for the white of my lenses widening and shrinking. I am literally just opening and shutting my eyes exaggeratingly, and it makes it look like my suit is acting of it's own accord, an android of some kind considering whether or not to let him live. I let him sweat for a moment.

"I remember what I was gonna say earlier," I say, holding up a finger. "This is good - I swear - you'll like it, I think… oh wait, here you go," I grasp the web covering his mouth and give it a sharp tug, ripping it off his mouth. It takes a decent portion of his goatee with it, and his eyes start to water heavily. "Uh, say the thing you said before, we'll try it again," I say goofily.

"Wh-wh-wh-at thing?" he asks blearily.

"It went something like - there's six of us, one of you," I remind him. "Go on, say it again, I got something this time." I gesture to the alley like it's his stage and this is a great opportunity.

"Uh - uh," he spurts, terrified. "There's, uh, six of us, and one-a you…"

"NEVER TELL ME THE ODDS," I reply loudly. I've wanted to use a Han Solo quote for something like this since the beginning. Wait till I tell Ned!

He shakes his head slightly, still terrified, eyes squinting like he's afraid I'm going to hit him in the face. He doesn't get the reference.

He doesn't get the reference at all.

I sigh. "I can't believe I wasted that on you. If you can't appreciate that - well…" I push the flap of webbing back over his mouth. "Nighty night." I send them up a netting-like trap like I did for the other three, pushing them once more so that they're swinging lazily back and forth.

I hear sirens in the distance. Even though I know they're coming for these six men - who were just recently in the building beside us robbing the convenience store - I feel a pool of dread in my gut. What if Cooper…

No.

It's not even the right jurisdiction, there's no way he'd be in this borough.

I step out of the alley way and send up a spiral of webbing that leads from the front door of the market, swoops around the corner, and connects to my home-made bags of protesting, angry criminals.

"See you guys never!" I shout loudly, scaling the wall to the building on the other side of the alley. I plant both hands firmly on the very edge of the gutter, launching my legs through them, landing at a run on the flat inside of the roof. I make it across and leap over a much smaller, skinnier alleyway, slamming against a sloped roof, and sliding for a brief millisecond before catching my feet on the gutter. Instead of heading up and over the peak, I creep along the side, careful not to jostle any terracotta tiles loose.

From there I can stick to the building behind it - the side of a skyscraper, white panels between thick, darkened windows. Only a few of the offices inside are lit, I avoid crawling past those windows, ascending higher and higher until I can safely spot a safer route from here to home, swinging from taller buildings gives me a sense of security that I never had to consider before - that no cop is following me stealthily in his car, waiting for the opportune moment for me to get too close to the ground so he can shoot me down.

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FILM SET

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[Captain America Public Service Announcement]

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Captain America stood beside a brick wall, arms folded and a gentle expression on his face.

"Growing up isn't always easy. Trust me, I would know. It's important to remember that when you're going through difficult times, whether that's changes to your body, your relationships, your life, or at school - that you remember to include the people you love. Open up to them. Talk about the things you have questions about with a trusted adult. Or maybe - you're the adult. That makes these sorts of difficulties even more difficult! But you're still not alone, even if you've graduated, moved out, traveling or studying, and maybe you feel like you're the only one on your plane of existence. Process out loud with loved ones, reach out to those around you in similar circumstances. Call up relatives or friends of the past, or that new friend you always thought you should spend time with but was never motivated to pursue. It's important to surround yourself with healthy relationships to quell the noise - the negative thoughts and emotions that can be overwhelming. You deserve to be built up, not torn down.

Make a move. Say hello. Pick up the phone. Share yourself with others. The world deserves to hear and see you, because you're amazing."

The Director's voice appeared from behind camera. "And… cut. Thank you, Steve."

The brick wall flickered away, revealing the green screen.

"You're welcome," Steve Rogers replied, rather stoically. He looked emotionally exhausted. "This one was… uh…" He trailed off, unable to think of the modern phrase for good for shellshock.

"You're telling me," said the Director. "I was totally that kid. Thought I could do everything on my own.. till I was knee deep in drug addiction and in rehab before I was eighteen." He gestured to the busyness of the room, production assistants turning lights out and winding up cables. "Of course, the difference being, I got the help I needed. And my parents had the means to get it for me."

Steve nodded with some surprise, but also understanding. He'd never had a conversation like this with anyone on the film crew before. Usually they just ushered him in, and ushered him back out again, handing him a paycheck and prompting him towards a private car that took him back to the main Shield headquarters until Natasha would finally break his routine with a call to arms.

"Loads of relevant issues keep cropping up," said the Director. "Different varieties of saying the same thing to kids nowadays."

Steve lifted his chin ever so slightly. "And what's that?"

The Director shrugged. "Don't kill yourself, I guess."

Steve looked away quickly. Having come from a background of sacrifice in war, it seemed the greatest tragedy - the greatest offense against nature - for one to end his or her own life.

"Sorry, man. I didn't mean to depress you. It's life. If we can play a small part in helping bring the numbers down, we do it."

"I've seen the stats," Steve replied. He pulled the blue helmet from his head, hair pressed in funny shapes revealing themselves beneath. "The world's changed quite a bit."

"Is it as bad as the guys who came home from the war?" asked the Director. "When the boys couldn't handle civilian life again?"

Steve shook his head. "It's worse."

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THE EDGE

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I shoot a splayed pattern of webbing against the side of a huge apartment high-rise, casually dropping into a fire escape and planting my hands against the wall. Hand over hand, I lift myself up the side, crawling vertically up, and up, thirty-three floors, forty, and then finally fifty-five, the final floor. I plant both hands on the edge of the rooftop and launch my legs over, surprised at the drop. It was a little deeper than I expected.

"Whoa!" I exclaimed loudly, falling eight feet down, remembering to tuck and roll last minute and launching myself to my feet again. "Whoo," I exclaim, shaking out my shoulders, and picking up speed to head for the other side of the roof. "That was unexpe…"

I stop and realize I'm looking at the face of a woman facing me on the rooftop. She's standing on a small ladder, the very end of the fire escape screwed to the wall and dropping over the side and heading for the floor below us. She's holding onto the handles, her neck craned around as she beholds my appearance with shock.

"Spider-Man?" she stutters.

I skid to a halt. "Uh - h-hi." I clear my throat and nod my head as if I expected her here. "Citizen."

She quickly drops off the ladder and brushes her hands off, tucking them awkwardly into her jean pockets. "What - what are you doing? Here?"

"Parkour," I offer meekly.

"Aha," she gives me a polite sort of laugh. "You don't remember me, do you?"

I tilt my head. Blond hair tucked behind her ears in a ponytail. A fairly nondescript face, average height, average size. It could be anyone… it could be…

"You were at the fire," I remember. "The same night I…" I stop myself. It was hard to remember something as normal as a rescue at an apartment high-rise when it was the same night I was kidnapped and savagely tortured. But I knew her now. She's the mom of the little girl I rescued. She had told me she was staying with her parents in Morris Park.

"I am so sorry," I say. "I remember you. But I don't remember your name…"

"It's Kimberly, I never told you my name, it's okay," she smiles, but I notice she's trembling. Badly.

"It's Kimberly, Kimberly Matthews, age thirty-three," says Karen in my in-ear. "I am sensing high levels of distress. You should move closer to her. I will try to determine vitals or if there is a medical emergency."

"Are you okay?" I ask, taking a step closer to her.

She begins to smile, winding up a lie. I know she's trying to come up with a lie because I've made the same expression to Aunt May multiple times. Smile, hesitate on answer, smile again with a sort of "Wha?" sound, and then answer. She knows it now and always calls me out.

"I'm fine," she says shortly.

"What are you doing up here?" I continue, taking another step. "This is a long way from Morris Park."

"This is my boyfriend's place," she answers finally. "He lives on the… uh… tenth… floor. I come up here to smoke."

I take another step. "I don't mean to be rude - really, I don't - but - why not just use the fire escape? It'd be a little safer, don't you think?"

"Sure," she shrugs. She doesn't retreat as I advance. "But my daughter and I come over to hang out with him. They're watching Frozen. I, uh, you know, don't want to smoke in front of her. I don't want her to pick up any of my bad habits."

"If I may interject, momentarily," said Karen's voice again. "She does not appear to be carrying any smoking devices."

"Where are your cigarettes?" I ask.

She has no answer for me this time. She looks around, confusedly, patting her pockets. "Huh," she says quietly. "Well," she adds coldly, "I guess I'll have to look for them. Nice seeing you again."

She's being abrupt and weird. In the very short few seconds I had spoken with her after the fire, she had been… talkative. Grateful. Gushy. The type of person who wanted me to know where she lived so if I needed a place to go, I could show up. She was probably just shy of sending Hallmark cards and cookies if she'd known my address.

But now she was cold and distracted, and I felt uneasiness rolling from the entire interaction in waves.

"I cannot determine anything wrong," Karen says confusedly. "But I am still sensing elevated heart rate… likely anxiety. For me to be able to read anything further, she'd have to be wearing this suit."

"Wait," I say, holding out a hand when she turns to walk away - to where, I don't know. It's a long, wide, flat roof, with air exhaust pipes and satellite dishes sticking out of it. There's a single upright door in the corner of the wall, leading to a maintenance stairwell.

She stops and looks at me, almost annoyed, but her eyebrows are knitted together with doubt.

"Why don't you let me walk you downstairs?" I ask. "Even walking in your own apartment building can be dangerous nowadays. At least let me make sure you arrive back safely."

Kim looks back at the ladder, then at the maintenance door, then back to me. She forces on a smile. "Sure… yeah… I'd like that. You're a gentleman. Better not tell my boyfriend, though, that I'm out walking with another man."

I mime locking my lips and throwing away the key. "Your secret is safe with me."

She smiles. "Yours too."

"Mine..?" I repeat, suddenly fearful. "What're you - what do you uh - mean?"

She winks. "That you have a soft spot for rescuing me. I just won't tell your other fans. They'll be jealous of me."

I chuckle uncomfortably. "Yeah, my legions of fans. Don't tell them you're my favorite." I step up close beside her, walking in stride with her as we approach the door. As I reach for the handle, I can't help but think her statement - while cute - doesn't make any sense.

I rescued my daughter, not her. And if she is considering this a rescue - what happened to her? What was she doing up here? Was there someone else here too, threatening her and leaving before my arrival? Or was she considering something more devastating?

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Thanks to Queen of Crystallopia for a last minute beta on this one! She jumped in at o' dark thirty like an absolute champ and made sure my nyquil addled brain didn't write a story about Ross and Rachel by accident. XD

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What's Coming Next?!

Peter has a hard lesson to learn about letting go, and he's going to learn it on two different fronts - letting go of things he can't control, and learning to let go of the things he can, but shouldn't, control. We'll probably have some more Stark and Happy interactions too. Ad for those of you who requested more Captain America, hopefully a few scenes with him outside the scope of Peter's life still make sense in a story-telling method.

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"Paint it Black" by your very own beta Queen of Crystallopia is nearly finished! And what a RIDE it is! She's busy working on the sequel, too, and I for one cannot WAIT for it, it'll be totally amazing.

Usually links don't work, so try copying this s/12696603/1/Paint-it-Black at the end of the regular web address, or click on her profile to read her story.

I made a fan trailer for her story, and I must say, I am pretty proud of it. If you guys want to hear my semi-terrible (but also not terrible?) Peter Parker impression, please, have a look XD It's unlisted and fan fiction hates it when we try to share links, so I'll try and post a version of it here. Just take out the spaces and parenthesis and replace the slash with an actual slash.

(www) . (youtube) . com (slash) (watch?v=TqWlBlVA9Q4&lc=)

Anyway, this is the trailer I made NOT for Down Came the Rain, but for Paint it Black, your beta's amazing story! Check it out!

If it doesn't work, you can DM me on Instagram. I'll send it to you.

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Next Quiz Question -

What songs remind you of the Marvel universe? Or even the DC universe? For me, Battle Cry and Believer by Imagine Dragons just TOTALLY belong in an epic slow-motion Marvel battle. I swear I'll make a fanvid someday.

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InstaFUN!

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You can follow me on instagram pippin_strange. I'll be posting nerdy stuff (fan fiction, cosplay, writing, marvel, etc)

Drawing classes, D&D, friends, hipster stuff, and more on my regular instagram, myapapaya_adventures


	31. First Knight

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My Cohort!

Thank you so much for all the love! My daily emails keep me informed of your favoriting and it just MAKES MY DAY! I am so glad you are enjoying. To make up for the space between my posts, here is an EXTRA LONG CHAPTER, and I have finally finished outlining all the adventures to come - I promise you, before the end of this book, you'll have the following to look forward to:

Dad!Tony

A cameo from a Netflix/Marvel television series

Hijinks from Karen

An epic battle of conscience and emotional turmoil

Stick around for all these and more! And be sure to send some love over to your beta, Queen of Crystallopia!

May a Starfish shine upon the hour of our meeting,

Pippin

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PS: Inside joke from an old Lord of the Rings fan fiction XD

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THURSDAY

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Mr. Stark and Happy lead us out of the facility side by side, chatting - sort of nonsensically - to bridge the awkward gap of leaving the safety of my handlers and my unknown future. Or, as normal as it can get. If anything, I would think Happy is better at chatting than Mr. Stark, since he still leads some semblance of a normal life with a normal job. It's the opposite. Happy is nodding with a sort of wide-eyed dazed look, sometimes grunting to show that he heard. Every so often he puts a hand to his bluetooth and says, "Say again. Boss interrupted."

"You ever tried them before? Impeccable," Mr. Stark is rattling on about… cuisine, craning his head to look at Aunt May every time Happy's attention is diverted. "The better ones come with the claw of the king crab draped over the side of the bowl. Just the one, though. A very expensive and delicious garnishment."

"Yeah, uh," Aunt May says with some dryness, "I must have missed that version since my last three hundred dollar meal was… never."

Mr. Stark whips his head around and gives her a wink. "Yet. I think after what you've been through, I owe you both a nice dinner."

"What you, uh, and Pepper going to have them over for all the cooking you can do?" Happy asks.

"Welcome back," Mr. Stark replies, affronted. "And no, I was thinking of sending them somewhere nice." He looks at me quickly. "Sans crime. Just waiters."

I let out a forced, polite chuckle as we reach the front doors. Happy pushes and holds them open for us.

"Listen, kid," Mr. Stark turns around. He looks like he wants to try and shake my hand, but clasps them behind his back, instead. "Remember what we talked about? If you - if you need anything. I'm a phone call away. So is Mr. Hogan."

"You can come back and see us anytime," Happy replies. "But not too soon, huh?" He opens the back of the car for us.

I stand awkwardly, shifting my weight from sore foot to sore foot. "I don't really know what to say," I hesitate. "I mean - thanks - for everything. For getting me. And bringing me here. If you hadn't gotten me here so quickly…"

"You might've died, yeah," Mr. Stark fills in uncomfortably. "But not yet, kid. Not for many, many, long years. Promise me you'll be careful out there." He finally reaches a hand out. I shake it, feeling younger than usual. Like I'm just a science geek meeting my hero and he is pulling from a list of phrases he uses for all of his fans. "Promise you won't, uh, do anything too spidery-related till we get you your suit back, yeah?"

"Okay. I mean, yeah. I promise."

"Remember your other promises," he lowers his gaze at me, in a sort of I dare you expression. He is recalling our conversation in the hallway before breakfast, but still keeping Aunt May in the dark about it. "None of that pajama nonsense," he adds.

Aunt May swivels her head to look at me. "You fought crime in pajamas before you had a suit?"

"No - not really, not like that," I exclaim, shooting a quick glare at Happy, who let out an unfortunate snort. He quickly looks away.

"Aha," Aunt May responds with a fake smile. "All right. Why don't you, um, get in the car, honey. I need a moment."

I give her a confused glance, but comply. "Oh, okay. Sure. Uh. Mr. Stark. Thanks - again. Really. I don't…" I pause and swallow a lump in my throat. "I'm just… gonna go." I slide into the back of the car, and Happy shuts the door.

For a moment the three of them stand just - talking. Even with enhanced hearing capabilities, the conversation is too muffled from inside this very fancy Audi. But it looks like they're making attempts to keep their voices lower for my behalf. Thanks, guys.

May reaches inside her purse, and Tony waves his hands at her, gently touching her wrist to make her stop doing whatever she is about to do. She's still not trying to pay a bill, right?

She finally nods and gives the back seat a look. I know she can't see me, not through tinted windows. Happy gestures, walking around the back of the car and opening the passenger door. May follows him and gets in on the other side of me, sliding onto the leather seat and taking in the fanciness of it. She makes a funny sound when she tests the comfortability of the seat, sort of a cross between an excited oooh and a doubtful huh. Happy gives her a confused look before shutting the door and trotting with a huffing expression to the driver's side.

A hand taps the window on my side. I roll it down and Mr. Stark leans in.

"Almost forgot," he says. "Heard your phone enjoyed some barbecue." He hands a box to me. "Something to tide you over till your next upgrade. This is a prototype - so - don't be leaving it every which way on bus seats or couch cushions or lockers."

"Is this a new phone?" I ask, way too excitedly, my voice squeaking every which way. I pull the lid off the box and examine the phone. Thin, and shiny, and labeled with - Stark Industries. "This is so cool," I am gushing unashamedly. "Does it do the uh, uh, hologram thing? Like the consoles?" Just based on his expression, I am going to assume that's a definite no. "Even - even so," I amend quickly, "This is - wow, this is amazing. Thank-you. This is great - really great." I start pressing the buttons on the side.

"We'll - uh - activate it at home," Aunt May says quickly with a sort of embarrassed laugh. She gently pats the back of my hand. "Thank you - Mr. Stark…"

"Please, it's Tony."

"Tony," May fixes. "Let us know… if… yeah. If there's anything you need." Her eyes flit towards me. Whatever they were talking about quietly, I am sure it had to do with protecting me from any future run-ins from Officer Casey Cooper. Except the part where he refused to tell her who it was - only that his people would take care of it. And by his people, he meant leaving the decision to me, which still, after everything, leaves Aunt May ignorant of his identity. A fact that fills me with a niggling, uncomfortable feeling.

Mr. Stark smiles, and gives a small drum beat on the car door with the palms of his hands. "Godspeed," he says lightly, straightening and stepping back up the steps.

"You ready back there?" Happy asks. "Seat-belts? Car doesn't move unless seat-belts are buckled."

Aunt May and I share a look and smile. I tug on the strap across my chest. It feels a little tight on the bruises - all that's left of the lacerations that had criss-crossed my entire chest. They could have been deadly cuts - and yet they weren't even going to leave scars. It took barely a day for my skin to knit itself back together and pretend none of this happened.

"We're ready," Aunt May answers. I start to roll up the window, watching Mr. Stark as I do so. He doesn't watch us leave. He marches up the stairs like a man on a mission, returning to the large glass doors leading into the reception area of the facility. I hope the next time I am here, I am pushing my way through those same doors, and not flying in like a torpedo in a glorified, robotic body bag.

At the last minute, Mr. Stark turns and looks at the car as Happy drives us down the long driveway. The expression on his face is steely, his brown eyes heavily burdened with exhaustion. I think what happened to me aged him. And I feel sort of terrible about it.

…

...

THE STREETS

…

…

First night back. First night in the newly repaired suit.

The first half of the night wasted sitting on the roof of my apartment building, swinging my legs back and forth and waiting for crime to happen in the alley way below me.

Nothing happens in the alley way, but a siren begins to wail in the not too distant distance.

I had told Aunt May I was going out tonight.

"No," she had said, "It's too soon. You just got back. You just - just had your first day back at school today, you're probably so behind on your homework - just…" she was pleading. "Give me one more day, please."

"I can't," I whispered desperately. "I can't. It's like - what's the phrase about the saddle? And the horse?"

"Uh… if you fall of a horse you get back in the saddle again?" Aunt May asked. "I think."

"This is my saddle - okay? If I don't go out tonight…" I shrug. "Maybe I never do. But that's not an option for me. Ever. I need to do this tonight."

Needing to is a lot easier than actually doing.

Which is why, less than two hours later, I find myself still sitting in the same place waiting for someone to get mugged nearby so that I could swoop down, fight a bad guy, and then dash breathlessly back to my room and believe it a job well done.

Only that's not me - that's not me at all.

I shove aside my lingering anxiousness and stand up on the edge of the wall, holding out my hand letting web fly from my wrist. When it catches two buildings down the block, significantly higher than my apartment, I leap high in the air and swing in the direction of the sirens.

I connect with a building half a block down, palms slamming against the brick and mortar of the older complex and crawling down a floor or two, putting me at the second story. I can see the red and blue lights swinging in erie circles against the sides of a taller building further out, closer to shore. The distance makes them look like the tiniest of fairy lights reflecting from the side of a silver-windowed building made up of mostly banks and insurance companies. From the highest windows of that building, one could see over Roosevelt island into downtown Manhattan.

I'm not going into Manhattan tonight - not for my first night back. I am going to keep this small, and local.

"Small, and local, small, and local," I whisper to myself as I wind around the side of the building, looking for a taller place to launch from again.

"Why are you repeating this phrase to yourself?" Karen questions.

I didn't realize I was saying it outloud. "No reason," I reply, leaping over the alleyway, feeling a rush of gravity before grabbing a sill and hoisting myself up and over, window past window until I am looping my leg over the top of the building. I pick up speed and run for the edge, leaping from this rooftop to the next. One after the other till the wailing lights grow closer and closer.

"Karen," I say, "I know I try not to take advantage of your superior artificial intelligence capabilities…"

"What do you need?"

"I don't suppose you have any, uh, hacking capabilities for the nearest police scanner…"

"I do not break in to federal electronic devices," Karen replies pleasantly.

"Nah - of course not - it's fine. Forget I asked. It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"There is a…"

"No, no, it's fine. I shouldn't have asked. I enjoyed hacking the server at the Avengers facility too much. Got a taste for it - now maybe I'm totally wanting to hack something again? I don't know, that's sort of a Black Widow thing. I don't want to steal her thunder when I join the Avengers for real, you know? But it was sort of… fun… while it lasted."

"I enjoyed that too," Karen says in a gentle, placating sort of way. "But I don't need to hack anything to find out what the local law enforcement is up to."

I pause on the corner of a wall like an oddly colorful gargoyle. "You don't?"

"I have access to several databases. One of the things I can check is the Facebook."

"The Facebook," I repeat, giggling. Karen just aged herself by about eighty years.

"The Facebook social media website," Karen corrects smoothly. "There is a local NYPD page posting updates on a hostage situation at a convenience store. The assailants have been identified as a local gang called the Blackbirds. Number unknown, approximately eight or so."

"Why would a whole gang go all crazy on a little go mart?" I muse out loud. Oh well... that's for detectives to figure out. Not me. If the go-mart was a front for a bigger project, maybe I would find out about it by accident, like I did with Toomes.

I flip backwards out of the crux of three medium-height buildings, dropping into the alley between them, and circumnavigating a twisted, maze like path between the backs of the buildings.

It turns into a small, gravel road hidden and nestled between the backs of the buildings, and the run-down, chain-link fenced back yards of several dilapidated houses.

I have a few blocks of bad neighborhoods to maneuver through before the buildings are tall enough again to web to. This is where the mild, spider-man version of parkour comes in - the sort of thing that would make Peter Parker and Ned geek out about while watching Youtube videos and lamenting that we'll never be that cool.

I sort of miss that - now Ned geeks out at me. The only thing we can still geek out about together is movies and science. Otherwise, if I let my own fan-boy freak outs loose in front of Ned, he realizes I'm just as much in the dark as he is. I tried to pull of the whole Stark prototype phone like it was just a rudimentary perk, whereas he was quick to point out that if none of the other Avengers had one, it meant I truly was special. That's the thing about Ned. He's always going to to think I'm special.

Even if I'm not, and I'm totally, royally, and mentally screwed up.

I jog quickly through the gravel alley until I get to a line of brownstones. Much better. I send a volley of web out to the rooflines, beginning the Tarzan-like swinging of swooping from side, to corner, to roof, back to the side, circling around and spying a construction crane way, way high up, by several stories. A much better vantage point. I climb up about halfway, the shock of the wind whistling louder and the cold front sending gusts of pressure against me the higher I get. Finally, I can see down to the street where twenty or so squad cars are in stand-off mode, lights whirring and men at arms with their weapons trained at the door.

The front doors are opening, and there's a line of people exiting, hands in the air and faces tear-streaked, some of them bloody… those are definitely the hostages, not the Blackbirds.

I see a service door open in the side of the go-mart, and a dark mess of limbs come piling out like a cartoon of criminal goons - only they weren't goons, they're just in a major hurry to get to the darkened car parked next to the store. A car that two cops are currently ducked behind, waiting for orders and watching the supposedly locked and abandoned maintenance door.

The Blackbirds draw weapons and begin firing at random, the sounds of the gunshots clapping my ears like an old fashioned boxing.

"Shit!" I exclaim, a vibration in the air - like a shrill zing - indicates a bullet flew in my direction, but misses by a good eight feet and disappears at an unknown speed into the sky.

I drop from the crane by a good seventy feet, stopping myself with one arm and a heavy "oof!" before sending a string of web forward. It latches itself to the back bumper of the car, keeping it from going anywhere. They had started the engine already, the tires screaming in protest and smoke winding up from the peeling rubber against asphalt. The two cops ducked behind it had scrambled, at first, further back, trying to avoid a stray bullet, but could now see my webbing. Dumbfounded, they follow it with their eyes and see me perched high above them.

"What the?" exclaims one.

"This is for yooou," I shout down, winding the end of the web around the crane. The car is definitely not going anywhere, leaving it stranded for the cops to come to their senses and approach the driver's side windows with guns drawn and shouting commands to exit. My webbing keeps the vehicle tethered like a giant dog on a leash.

An unknown number of the gang had gotten themselves into the vehicle, the rest fled down the alley way while their comrades took the fire.

"Karen - any heat signatures still present in that alley?"

"There are - but just out of my range from here. I cannot tell how many, they are huddled closely together - probably looking for a way to break into the nearest building so they can double back instead of fleeing on foot."

"Nice. Okay. Any chance you can guess at how many?"

"If I had to guess, maybe six."

"Are you a gambling AI, Karen?"

"I have nothing to place a bet with."

"I'd be willing to wager something on eight gang-members hiding in that alleyway as per _The Facebook_ post."

"I have nothing to place a bet with," Karen repeats confusedly.

"You don't have to bet anything."

"Oh, in that case," Karen replies, "I believe the correct phrase for agreeing to a gamble is, You're On."

"Good enough for me!" I feel adrenaline pumping through my veins as I tightrope down my own web for a half minute, dropping past it and grabbing it with my fists, giving myself a gymnast's bar to swing from and launch myself past the police barrier and to the building next door to the go-mart's parking lot. Some of the police spot me and yell and me to stop, but I ignore them as I crawl around the building's brick side and aim for the alleyway.

"Showtime," I say out loud, grinning with sheer enjoyment of the night air - the sounds of the cops - the sizzling sensation of spider-senses telling me the best places to jump, web, and leap from, till I can hear the sounds of the thugs myself.

I can't believe I ever hesitated.

…

…

THURSDAY AFTERNOON

…

…

Happy pulls the car up to the curb. Contrary to habits of the past, he hurries to open the door for Aunt May, and then for myself.

"Thanks," I say.

"Yeah," he replies quickly. He sort of has a funny look on his face, a redness that usually comes with embarrassment or - fear. Not a fear of danger, but a fear that looks like he doesn't want to get caught doing something weird. Like owning a vintage Captain America action figure. Which I totally don't have.

An extra sensory perception tingles on the back of my neck as I step out of the car and he shuts the door. I glance over my shoulder and see another car that matches ours has also pulled over, maybe thirty feet away. My head swivels towards Happy, and then in front of us, where there's another car - an exact match - which, too, is in the process of pulling over. A taxi honks at them and passes them illegally on the left.

"Happy," I begin.

He holds up a hand. "Not my idea," he says quickly.

"Is this for us?" May asks in some surprise, following my gaze back and forth.

Happy shrugs. "Top secret. Can't say."

"It's the same Audis from the complex," I say.

"An… an escort," Happy confesses.

"An escort just for us?" I say. "Really? That's - um - really nice - but isn't that sort of, a lot? Like expensive?"

He narrows his eyes at me and looks flummoxed. "So the security detail was supposed to be a secret. Big deal." he opens the driver's side door again, sliding into his seat. "Don't expect the rest will be so easy to spot."

"The rest?" Aunt May repeats.

Happy shuts the car door and slips on a pair of sunglasses. We stand in front of our apartment building watching him drive into the alley, back out quickly, and drive back down the road. The other two cars make slightly less subtle U-turns to follow him out. We punch in the code for our apartment and go through the front doors. As it swings shut behind us, Aunt May gives the street outside another once-over.

"So do we have secret service or not?" May asks.

I shrug. "I guess if we knew, it wouldn't be secret service, would it?"

May whips her head and looks at me, her eyes bugging before a smile takes over her face. "My boy made a cheesy joke. I am so proud."

"That's usually your job," I reply.

She wraps an arm around my shoulders and guides me towards the elevator. "You'll never forgive me for saying I larb you, will you?"

"It's growing on me, actually."

When we get upstairs she puts her hands on my shoulders and gives me a slight push towards my bedroom. "You - go - to - bed." she commands.

"You should get some sleep too," I say, shuffling along with resignation.

"I plan to. I'm going to make some food first. Whenever you're ready we can eat a late lunch - or an early dinner - whatever you like. Within reason."

I push my creaky door open and look at my room for the first time in three days. It's different when you go on a trip - a comic con with Ned, or a scholastic decathlon - there's always some sign of hurried packing beforehand, usually an empty hamper, a few items tossed carelessly around, and a nicely made bed.

I walk into a room that I had expected to return to much, much sooner. The bed is messy and unmade, half-done homework on the desk. My backpack and my last school outfit are still webbed to a chimney on top of an apartment complex called Duck Pond Plaza three blocks from school. Unless someone found it. If they did… yikes, I am going to be in so much trouble - I can't believe I would need to ask Aunt May for third backpack in one year.

"Aunt May," I say, turning around and leaning my head out of my door.

She pops her head out of the kitchen, munching on a carrot. She's put her glasses on and she sort of looks like a rabbit. "Yeah, hun?" she responds.

"N-n-nothing," I say, changing my mind. Bad idea, Parker! Bad bad bad idea! "I'm just - my room is a mess. Sorry. Forgot to make my bed on Tuesday morning before school."

Considering I never made it home Tuesday evening because I was kidnapped and tortured, Aunt May puts this way, way, way at the bottom of her list of things to be upset about.

She crunches her carrot, looking dumbfounded at the confessional, and slightly pained. "It's okay," she says slowly. "Just remember to do it Monday morning."

"Wait," I say, "You mean I don't have to go to school tomorrow morning?"

"I'm sorry," she pushes her glasses up on her nose, and pops the last half of the carrot in her mouth. "Do you think I'm a monster? Hell NO you're not going to school tomorrow."

A smile spreads across my face. I am not quite ready to go back yet.

"The flu is a bitch this time of year," she adds, playing up to the excuse we used for my absence. "I'm telling you."

That leaves tomorrow open for me to sneak out and get my backpack at some point. So I have it before Monday… at least maybe I can get some work done…

"I'll still do some work tomorrow, I'll just have to run get my backpack," I suggest carefully. "I'll text Ned and see if he can fill me in on some of the homework."

Aunt May gives me a warm smile, the phrase run and get slipping by her as I hoped it would. If she knew I'd be climbing up someone's wall - sans spider-uniform - she'd flip out.

"I think that's a smart choice," she nods. "I am SURE," she steps back into the kitchen and I hear a spoon tapping the side of a pot. "Your teachers will appreciate your effort. Just don't overdo yourself, okay?"

"I won't, I promise," I slowly step back in my room and shut the door quietly. How am I supposed to overdo myself, anyway? If I go back to school Monday, it means I am going back to school less than a week after getting kidnapped and tortured. That seems pretty overdone to me, but my accelerated healing jumpstarts ordinary life far sooner than if it happened to someone normal. Is this a good thing, or a bad thing? I don't know that I am ready to face my peers. Even if it's just as easy to keep this secret, of being abducted, as it is to keep a secret about wearing a red and blue uniform and stopping crimes.

I change into a clean pair of sweats and a T-shirt and slip into bed, taking the box from Mr. Stark with me. I unpack the new phone and begin playing around with it, sticking it on its charger and eagerly examining all the shiny features. Happy, Mr. Stark, and Aunt May's numbers are pre-programmed. Ned's number is still tacked to my bulletin board from when we first got cellphones, so I add his to the list of contacts and text him immediately.

* * *

You - Hey, it's Peter. New phone.

Ned - New PHONE? I mean cool but hi? Where are you?

You - Home finally

Ned - what happened to the old phone

You - it melted

You - in a fire

Ned - WHAT

Ned - DUDE

Ned - So you're home just like that?

You - Yup I guess so

Ned - Did you accept the new suit this time

You - unless aliens attack New York again, no

You - or… if there's aliens. In general

You - I hope Mr. Stark's offer of a new suit was an open offer

Ned - like you change your mind and he says 'JK JK one time only'?

You - I hadn't even thought of THAT!

Ned - Sorry

You - It's fine! I'm just gona stick with the old one for now

You - Mr. Stark's fixing it

Ned - Fixing it from what?

You - well fire for starters

Ned - Oh yeah

You - and the whole sort of abduction thing

Ned - :(

Ned - do I want to know?

You - No

You - you really don't

Ned - Ok :(

You - I'm ok tho really

Ned - are you sure? Cuz I'm like imagining all this horrible stuff and how you're like texting me from your deathbed or something

You - It'd be really hard to text you on the verge of death

Ned - true

You - I'm home, I'm in bed - not dead

Ned - I can email some of my notes from this week

You - that's actually really nice

You - thanks man

Ned - anything for you spudman

You - …

You - … spudman?

Ned - auto correct

Ned - spudman

Ned - spudman

Ned - :(

You - maybe its best to just leave the actual name out anyway

Ned - ALL RIGHT SPUDMAN IT IS

You - night

Ned - afternoon ;P

* * *

…

…

"Peter? Honey? Did you want something to eat? It's past dinner time."

The door creaks open. I watch the top edge of the door, her dark hair leering in. She glances with confusion at my empty bed.

"Peter?" she repeats, looking around the dark room. She steps inside and looks immediately at the window with suspicion, open just enough to let in a breeze that stirs the curtains. She switches on a lamp and gasps with the audacity that I may have snuck out again.

"That little…" she begins, and then I let out a loud exhale, a sort of moan that replaces snoring when you're just on the brink of paralysis while dozing. Slowly, with a slight expression of horror, she glances up and sees me hanging upside down from the ceiling.

"SHIT!" she barks, stumbling backwards.

My eyes widen, fully comprehending the upside down room and the sight of my aunt falling against my dresser. "What?" I yelp, unsticking my hands and falling. I miscalculate the distance and crash partially into the desk, knocking over a carefully-stacked mess on top that quickly explodes in a shower of paper, knick-knacks, and school supplies.

I launch myself immediately to my feet and look around blearily, holding out my hands like one does when they think they've felt an earthquake and suddenly look like their skateboarding in place. "What happened?" I squeak confusedly.

Poor Aunt May stares back at me, rubbing her elbow. "What the hell!" she manages.

"Did you hurt yourself?" I ask, blinking owlishly and gesturing to her arm.

"No!" Aunt May exclaims. "I'm the one who's supposed to ask the questions!"

I wait, eyebrows raised.

"What were you doing," she jolts one finger up at the sky. "Up there?"

I realize my T-shirt and hair are almost totally plastered with sweat. "Sleeping?"

"Upside down?" she shrieks. "Like an effing BAT?"

"That's not where I started out," I confess, looking down at the mess, and picking up a few fallen notebooks. "I was in bed." She looks doubtful. "That's where I was sleeping - I swear."

"And you just magically end up on the ceiling?"

"Well - not magically," I try to explain, straightening a still-chaotic stack of junk on the desk. "...it's the radioactive result of a microcell…"

"I was being SARCASTICALLY METAPHORICAL, PETER!"

"Oh, sorry," I let out an unfortunate snicker, but she is in no way amused. "I think I was sleepwalking," I say, then change my mind. "No - sleep crawling."

"Does this happen often?!"

"No! Never!" I protest.

Then the dream I was having slowly starts to re-form in my sleep-deprived brain. "Oh," I say, growing crestfallen. "I thought…" I don't bother to pick up the rest of the mess. Instead I ignore it suddenly and walk back to my bed, sitting down dejectedly on the edge of the mattress. "I was having a bad dream." I lace my hands together in my lap and hang my head. "Sorry."

"Wana talk about it?"

"There's not - well, I mean. Sure," I reply awkwardly.

She stands up straighter, surprised at my response. She walks a little too quickly over to the bed and sits down beside me, rubbing my back briefly before folding her hands in her lap. "So what did you dream about?"

"So I guess it was more about waking up then it was about the dream," I say haltingly. "I think I was dreaming about being - you know. Hurt… on Tuesday night."

I have a sudden flash of the realness of the dream. Of the police officer stabbing me. Pocketing the screwdriver. Smiling sickenly when he let me go for no reason. But this time he reached for my throat, held me down with one hand while the other retrieved a gun…

"And when I opened my eyes," I continue with a wince, "...or dreamed I opened my eyes - I didn't know - where - I was."

My voice cracks at just the wrong moment. Aunt May's arm snakes around my shoulders again and lets it stay there.

"It's okay," she says quietly, and waits a moment. "Go on. If you want."

"I… well, I think that was it… It was just dark and hot and I was all sweaty? Then I heard your footsteps in the hall and thought it was - well - the guy - I just remember thinking that someone was coming in here to hurt me - and next thing I know you're turning on the light and yelling and falling over and I'm realizing where I am and how I'm - sitting?"

"Hanging," she corrects. "Definitely hanging upside down. Like a bat. Or a monkey."

"I am so sorry I scared you!"

"I am more sorry," Aunt May wraps her other arm around me and pulls me in for a hug. "For what happened - that made you scared." She kisses the top of my head.

I try to relax a little and let her comfort me - but my new phone starts buzzing.

I glance at the screen in my peripheral vision. It's Happy.

"You can take that if you want," Aunt May pulls back, brushes some hair from my forehead, and sniffs my sleeve. "Why don't you take a shower and come get some dinner when you're done?"

"O-okay. Yeah. I will." She stands and brushes her hand along my cheek. "You know he's not going to hurt you again - right?" she says. "If it's the last thing I do…"

"I know."

1 missed call.

"Sorry, I said you could get that. I meant it. Call him back. I'll see you in a bit."

"Thanks, Aunt May." Still bleary with sleep, I hit the redial option and hold the new phone up to my ear. She shuts the door behind her.

"Hogan here."

"Hey Happy. Sorry I missed you - what's up?"

"What's up?" he mimicks. "What's up? Status report. Now."

"Uh… nothing? You… just dropped me off. Earlier today."

"That was then, this is now."

"Uh - okay?"

"What's your status?"

"Like, currently? I'm in… bed… I guess?"

"GOOD. STAY THERE."

"I - I can't…"

"You sure as hell can - wait. Why not? You can't?"

"I have to take a shower?"

"I meant - stay put," Happy corrects. "Stay in."

"I'm not going out tonight, if that's what you mean."

He makes a huffing noise like I'm some dratted kid foiling his plans. "I knew that, of course. Just checking in. How're you feeling?"

"I mean - aside from the obvious?"

"What's obvious?"

"Sore? Tired? Weird?"

"You just described turning fifty," Happy sighs.

"Are you turning fifty?" I ask confusedly.

"Me! Of course not! Anyway, I gotta go. Stay in, stay put, sleep tight."

Click.

…

…

FRIDAY MORNING

…

…

No one is looking twice at a kid in jeans and a jacket going up a drainpipe. Only because no one looks down the alley where I am. I'm stupidly lucky.

Climbing a wall… without a mask. Great idea, Parker. Really great.

My backpack is where I left it, but the web has long since dissolved, so it had slipped down and lies in an abandoned lump at the base of the brick.

I snatch it up and looked inside. "Ugh," I say out loud. It smells sort of… mildew-ey. It hadn't rained since Tuesday but enough time spent in the frost of mornings and fog at night - it's not a pleasant result.

I throw away a few items from the pockets in one of the dumpsters in the alleyway after I climb down. A few damp homework pages that are unreadable. A half eaten apple. An extra pair of socks for gym that probably kill Aunt May if I put them in the hamper.

Getting out this morning wasn't easy, either. The only thing that worked was waiting till Aunt May was done playing babysitter and resigned to the fact that the only way I would get caught up on homework was if she let me step out for awhile and get my bag.

My hand was literally on the doorknob to leave when she finally realized she didn't know where my backpack was.

"Wait - are you going to Neds?" she asked suspiciously. "Or is it at school?"

"School," I replied all too quickly, my voice cracking. "It's still at school."

She looked at me over the rims of her glasses, considering whether or not to let me by on an answer that had just as much of a chance of being total bull as it did being truthful.

"Okay," she finally said. "I want you back in less than an hour."

"If I…"

"LESS."

Which means getting the bag in… twenty minutes… leaves me thirty-nine minutes to kill. Should I warm up a little? Try to psych myself out and get back in the game? Climb some more walls sans mask? Run laps? Try a couple of backflips up and down the sidewalk and try NOT to attract extra attention by having superior gymnastic skills when there just happens to be a red-and-blue-spandex hero with the same moves attracting media attention? Probably a bad idea…

I don't know when Mr. Stark is going to finish my suit. Maybe he just said that to keep it and won't give it back - ever. Maybe he wants me to be done. What if this is IT?

If I am done being Spider-Man, what else is…

Hm, I think, a slight smile on my face. When I thought I was going to die, I swore if I got out, I'd try photography.

How does one even begin? I can't dumpster dive for a camera like I would for an old computer part. They don't throw them out like that.

And part of me wants to find a job, too. Something to fall back on.

The whole let's-torture-Spider-Man for useless information really threw me. I thought I could keep doing this… well, forever. But what happens when I meet someone smarter, or stronger? When I'm Mr. Stark's age, do I retire and let someone else use the suit?

I never considered what a life would be like without it. And now that I have been forced to seriously consider what it would mean to lose my life, I think it's time to expand my horizons in the career department.

There's only two places I can think of where an amateur can, arguably, take pictures and either display - or sell them - and gain any kind of feedback from a local audience.

One of them would be working for the school yearbook.

I think about spending extra hours at school anywhere else other than the math and science labs… bleh. No. Ned would abandon me for sure.

The second one was definitely more along my ideals of a cool career plus doing photography simultaneously.

Literally be a normal teenager for once in your life and use instagram, my brain argues.

Okay… three ways to display photos and get feedback from a local audience. But I already have an online presence - Spider-Man's notoriety on youtube. I can't risk any real-time Peter Parker online shenanigans coinciding with Spider-Man's online presence.

Newspaper photography it is!

I slip my backpack over my shoulders and step out of the alley, shading my eyes against bright sunshine.

...

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Everyone: ALL THE BIG THANK YOUSAS TO YOUR QUEEN - Queen of Crystallopia for being the most amazing beta ever! Without your encouragement I might as well have scrawled a few misspelled words on paper with crayons, threw it into the air and yelled LOOK I POZTED TO ZE INTERNET AIRWAVES! XD

Cloudoffeathers: Thank you so much for your heartwarming review! I am so, so glad you are enjoying it. And I am glad the format is working for you! It can be a hit and miss format! When it's finished I'll be reposting in chronological order, but I am happy that it helps readers from getting bored. It honestly helps me too from getting bored as the writer!

BatmanSkittles17: Still hands down one of my favorite pennames, lol. I picture Batman spilling skittles and, while in full bat costume, trying to pick them up off the floor. XD Anyway, thank you for your continued support! As always! XO XO

Luckypizzadog: LOL sorry, my author's notes will always and forever be way too long. XD I am guessing you're on the mobile version of the website? I had so much trouble with the mobile app I finally deleted it, it had too many bugs. I am hoping to re-install it later. No matter what platform you are on - I am so glad you are here! thank you for reading and reviewing! :)

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* * *

IN THE NEXT CHAPTER

We are finally going to Hell's Kitchen.

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Your amazing beta Queen of Crystallopia has finished the epic, dramatic, best-fan-fiction-ever "Paint it Black" and has just posted the sequels first chapter! Check out "Silent Night" on her profile!

As always, if you want to see the fan trailer I made for her first book, it's unlisted and fan fiction hates it when we try to share links, you can try using the link below. Just take out the spaces and parenthesis and replace the slash with an actual slash.

(www) . (youtube) . com (slash) (watch?v=TqWlBlVA9Q4&lc=)

But the easiest thing to do is message myself or Queen of Crystallopia on instagram (insta handles shared on respective profile pages) and we'll DM you a link!

* * *

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Instagram handles!

...

For fanfiction: pippin_strange.

For life, drawings, and more: myapapaya_adventures

For my epic Dungeons & Dragons group: thegildedlillyparty


	32. 3:10 to Peter

...

Dearest cohort of readers,

I have to apologize for the long absence, I have to admit I had writers block for this story! You have your beta to thank for advising and encouraging me out of it, a round of applause for Queen of Crystallopia! She is literally just the best! Anyway, I am so happy to be back, I've missed writing this SO much!

Please let me know your thoughts :) REVIEWER REPLIES AT THE END OF THE CHAPTER! Leave a review if you want a reply ;)

Love,

Pip

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…

AFTER SCHOOL

…

…

I kick a wayward piece of trash from the sidewalk, hands shoved in pockets and head down. I avoid eye contact from anyone on the crowded street corner, but I also can't help put check the driver of every car going by, afraid - and yet almost hoping - that I see I familiar dark blond head peering at me suspiciously through tinted glass.

Come and get me, I think - bravely or foolishly, I don't know. He can't use the same Toomes' weapon to shoot me down in broad daylight. He'd actually have to act like a cop in a crowd.

I sigh and take two steps back, pick up the paper cup I had kicked a second ago, and walk it to the nearest trash receptacle bolted into the cement.

I flinch when an exceptionally fancy white Audi R8 roars up to the curb and brakes all too smoothly, the engine purring like a space-age invention.

And the passenger window rolls down.

"Care for a ride home, Mr. Parker?" Mr. Stark's aviators glint in the late afternoon light. "Sort of a bad neighborhood to be in sans suit, don't you think?

"It's at the dry cleaners," I joke, only hesitating for a moment.

"Funny," he replies shortly.

I lean on the passenger door. "Shouldn't you be upstate?"

"I was, then I wasn't. Business meetings. I still work here sometimes, you know. My fiance bought my building." He pops the handle on the door, forcing me to take a step back and opening it the rest of the way. "Get in."

"You're really taking me home?"

"Either that or I tie you to the top. Your choice."

I slide in and shut the door.

"Seatbelt."

"Really?"

"Car doesn't move till you're wearing a seatbelt."

I sigh and buckle up. The car purrs away from the curb and slides like a zipper back into traffic, Mr. Stark expertly navigating the tight corners and thin lanes with precision.

"So," he says, reaching down and bumping the volume dial with his hand. AC/DC's Shoot to Thrill, Aim to Kill fades into a monotonous background buzz. "What are you doing in Hell's Kitchen?"

I consider my answer carefully. "The absolute truth is… I don't know."

He whips off his aviators for a second, pinching them between his fingers so he can still use that hand on the steering wheel. He glances in the review mirror, and then glances briefly at me. "The truth?" he asks.

"Yeah. It's the truth."

"Y'know it's hard to read you, here - while also concentrating - in this god awful traffic."

"That's why I take the train."

"I thought you didn't have a license yet."

"Uh… I don't." I shrug. "I didn't say it was the only reason I took a train."

Mr. Stark gives his head a little shake, like he's putting a smile away and thinking I'll save that for later. "This whole Peter Snarker thing is fun and everything, but we're going to put a pin in that and rewind to the part where you were walking down a sidewalk in Hell's Kitchen after school with no god-damn excuse."

I bite my lip and look out the window. We pass a sign for getting on the 495. Mr. Stark expertly maneuvers onto the exit.

"Cool," I whisper.

"Huh?"

"Cool. Sorry. This is a - a really, really nice car."

"How old are you again?"

"Fifteen?"

"Uh huh." He knows how old I am, he's trying to make a point. I see it, and I ignore it. "All right, kiddo," he relinquishes, "I'm turning this one up. It's one of my favorites. At the end of the song, you tell me the truth." He glances at me again. "Agreed?"

"Agreed," I say hesitantly.

"Good." he slides his aviators back onto his face and turns up the volume. The AC/DC song had ended and the next one on shuffle was starting… or, whatever the heck these fancy cars use to play songs with no commercials. And somehow it's never the annoying pop tune that gets played three times an hour.

I'm no idiot, I could probably name the technology if I could take it apart and see it… then have fun rebuilding it… from the inside. But I have no idea what rich people call it when it's a finished product and blinking with a blue, virtual touch screen.

I'M ONNA HIIIIIIGHHHHWAAAAAAY TO HELL

HIIIIIIGHWAAAAY TO HELL

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHWAY TO HELL

I wonder if Tony Stark picked this song on purpose, or the Audi's nav system sensed we were just in Hell's Kitchen and picked an appropriately named song.

It's sort of creepy.

I watch the buildings fall away to the East River, then glance through the other side and glimpse the United Nations headquarters. It's weird to see something so normal from the outside that people drive by every day, when you know within those walls, someone might have suggested the Sokovia accords and began this entire mess - but without it, I wouldn't be where I am, or know any of the Avengers.

All too soon the song ends.

"So," Mr. Stark says, turning the volume down again. "Why were you in Hell's Kitchen?"

"I was telling the truth before. I don't know."

"All right, I hear you. You're a teenager. Maybe you just do things without thinking about why - or the consequences. Sure."

"Yeah," I gulp. "That's… what it was."

"So explain to me - instead - the reasoning prior to arriving. You obviously would have had to get on - where'd you get on? Union? From school? That's some complicated navigation, plenty of time to think about where you're going."

"I don't know!" I exclaim. "I felt like getting on a train and coming here because I know there's some guy who wants to kill me working out here and maybe there's a part of me that just - wants to know where he is? I don't know - like if I see him there, I know he's not waiting outside my apartment building? That's it, that's all I got, Mr. Stark. I was just not thinking about… it…"

"Sounds like you did plenty of thinking about it."

"Sounds that way, doesn't it…" I sigh. "But I didn't… I wasn't."

"He's not outside your apartment building."

"I know."

"I've got guys posted around, you know. Till things settle down."

"I know."

"We could curb a little of this anxiety by pressing charges."

"No."

"Ah." Mr. Stark makes a disapproving little huff through his lips like he tasted a cigar he didn't like. "I don't want you near this neighborhood right now."

"Yes, sir," I say quietly. I didn't say this with sarcasm. The sir just sort of slipped out.

He raises his eyebrows but doesn't comment. "Good," he responds shortly.

Mr. Stark had absolutely no idea how much he sounded like my uncle Ben right now. Calling him sir was like slipping up and calling him "Uncle". Only he had no idea. There's a time when it's mister this or mister that, and now was just not one of those times. Sir will do.

The car ride is fairly quiet for a few moments. Eventually the silence makes Mr. Stark uncomfortable, and he begins to pepper me with questions about school, which - as best as I can - I answer, and I feel as if I am in the weirdest job interview of my life. Ironically, I feel it is exactly the sort of conversation we'd have if I was just an ordinary Midtown Science student looking to get a Stark Industries internship.

Fighting crime at night in a red and blue suit didn't come up once.

…

…

THE TRAIN

…

…

The gray buildings whip by speedily through the dirty windows. The train sways a little with the rhythmic clatter of the rails, both a overwhelming input making me with I wore my mask, but also some reminder of home, of New York, and who the kid is under the mask.

At times I try to remember who he is.

My gaze is focused, steely. Staring ahead but seeing nothing but… red. Maybe I had been unsure before… maybe I had no idea what I was doing. Maybe I still didn't.

But I knew today I would do something.

It's technically not premeditated if you wing it, right?

All I knew was that - unlike last week, wandering around without purpose - this would be different. And Mr. Stark wouldn't catch me this time.

I hold my backpack on my lap and fiddle with the earbuds, turning my music up louder and trying to make my mind stop racing. It takes me awhile to figure out what is playing.

Out of Limits by the Marketts. Not sure what - or who this is. Aunt May makes sure my ipod is populated with, what she calls, GOOD Music! ...which means the music is three or more decades old and I don't know what any of it is.

"Hi…"

The music has an uneasy sound to it. Very sixties-retro, a high pitched organ solo over guitar strummings that actually sound a little like an imitation of a chugging, cartoon train.

"Kid?"

From what little I know from band - the minimum that I understood before I quit band, that is - the song might be a minor key, which is why it sounds uncomfortable.

"Hey, kid. Sorry." A hand waves from the seats across from me.

I glance up and quickly pop out my earbuds, looking up with a vacant expression, trying to muster a face of innocence as best as I can.

It takes me a second to realize I am not putting on my innocent face for Tony Stark, whom I half expected to plop down in front of me, demanding why I am - yet again - bound for a certain destination in a handbasket.

"Hey," I reply with uncertainty, to the man sitting across from me. He looks familiar. Almost like…

He looks around furtively, making sure no one is watching us, before leaning forward in his seat so that our knees are almost touching. "It's uh - me, Brian. I'm uh… paramedic. Remember me?"

I gape at him. Brian the paramedic, from the night I emerged half-dead out of the abandoned basement…

"Holy shit," I whisper.

"Uh, yeah, sorry, I know this is awkward," he sits back a little in his seat, giving us more space. The train rocks particularly violently around a speedy turn. "I wasn't sure if you would remember me."

"I - I…" I realized my first reaction gave me away completely. But it wasn't too late to try. "You must have me confused with someone else," I falter.

"Oh, yeah-yeah-yeah, sure thing," Brian waves lightly. "I get it, it's cool. Don't even worry about it. Really," he says this in absolute earnest, nodding emphatically. Then he adds, in a whisper; "Just… glad to see you doing so well, is all."

All the excuses I was trying to contemplate fly out the window. "Thanks?" I reply, hesitantly.

Silence falls, and Brian stares at his hands.

The train catapults us closer to Hell's Kitchen. We have about ten minutes more of this.

"No, I mean it," I whisper. "Thanks. You probably saved my life."

"So it is you?" Brian asks. "God, okay, man… I was thinking I was going crazy."

I must have looked panicked, because he adds, "Don't worry - I never told anyone. Except my wife. Well, parts of it. I just told her the short version. I hope that's okay."

I blink owlishly at this admission. "I don't… I mean… please don't say anything now, I guess?" I look around the crowded train car with trepidation. "Telling your wife… is fine. That's cool."

"Your secret is safe with me, I swear," Brian promises again. "Remember - I literally have no idea who you are. You're just a kid sitting in the same train."

I nod and gulp, a little too obviously.

"Are you… okay right now?" Brian asks, his eyebrows knitting together. The light of a familiar acquaintance leaves his eyes, replaced by a colder, more professional look.

I clamp my mouth shut, unable to answer honestly for a moment. "I'm okay, I guess," I hesitate.

"Is the next stop yours?" he questions.

"Yeah."

"Ah," he nods, understandingly. "I guess there was a part of me that kept forgetting you're sort of… local. I never saw anything after, so legit sightings, at least. So I was hoping you were still alive."

I nod again. "Still crawling around."

"And the - ahem - suit - didn't kill you," Brian infers. I remember his protests against my getting into a prototype medsuit.

"No," I reply, "But you were right. It was really uncomfortable in there."

He lets out a pained chuckle. "Jesus, kid."

"No kidding," I try to smile. This is the last thing I need today. But I am going to have to roll with this. "Next time you see Jeff… tell him thanks, too, would you?"

"I'd be happy to. It would mean a lot to him - especially right now."

"What's going on right now?"

"He quit. He's getting his licensing as a journeyman electrician instead." Brian sighed. "That night really shook him up. He decided he wasn't cut out to do what we do. I think he realized he was sort of terrible at it, too."

I try not to chuckle at this. "He questioned himself a lot."

"It's life or death," Brian replies seriously. "It's certainly not okay to lose your shit as soon as there is an actual emergency and forget all your training. But," he adds this vehemently, "Jeff really did his best. And in the end, he did question himself. He remembered to ask an important one, though."

"What's that?"

"He remembered to ask himself; Do I want to do this? And the answer was no. So he quit and started doing something he enjoys."

"Huh," I reply thoughtfully.

"We still hang out with our families every weekend. I'll tell him you're okay. I think it'll give him closure."

"Thanks. Really. If it weren't for the both of you…" I suddenly shudder, and imagine I see a flash of red, and a glint of metal inside. The moment passes in less time than it takes to blink. "I don't know what would have happened. The tracker in the suit was broken. It's saved my life in the past - but - its not invincible."

"And neither are you, unfortunately," Brian replies. "You… uh… planning on being in Hell's Kitchen a lot? I didn't really think it was your neighborhood. But this is twice now. Am I going to be saving your ass more often?"

"No," I say, and this time the smile is genuine. "That was a one time deal."

"Good, good." Brian leans back in his seat, a bit more relaxed now. It must be a day off, as he's not in his uniform, just a plain black jacket and jeans. Suddenly I remember the cop in the photo, dressed down for some charity event…

"How often do you work with the police?" I ask.

Brian's smile slowly dissipates. "Uh, often. Every damn day. We're called to the same scenes, generally." He leans forward again, lowering his voice. "Why? Why do you ask?"

I bite my lip. How can I help him like he helped me if he might work with the same psycho who tried to kill me?

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" he asks quietly. "Because I can't - I won't - I have no pull, you understand. I know you're young and all, but there isn't much I can do to help."

"It was a cop," I say, shocking myself at my confession - but even as I say it, I feel a huge weight leave my chest. Telling someone who it might actually benefit, rather than someone armed with a giant A logo and Stark-paid lawyers, felt right.

"What do you mean?" Brian asks. "Who was a cop?"

"A cop with the Hell's Kitchen precinct," I whisper. "He kidnapped me and tortured me for information on the Avengers. I think he was working for someone like… someone named Fisk. That's what happened the night you helped me."

I could see that the name Fisk rang a bell. What Brian's experience with the name was, I couldn't possibly guess. But the knowledge was there - and it was enough.

His face blanched. "Shit," he whispered. He glanced around the car like he suddenly expected an assassin to pop up and yell surprise. "Holy - shit." He sits back, and then leans forward again, lacing his fingers together and hanging them between his knees. I can see him slowly comprehend the fact that if he helped someone - inadvertently - who was hurt by someone indirectly working for someone like Fisk - that it was still dangerous enough to have a ripple effect in his own life if he wasn't careful.

"You didn't happen to get a badge number, did you?" he asks carefully, looking up from his hands.

"Nope," I say too quickly.

He looks confused. "Oh. Okay. Damnit." This gives him pause, and he looks worried. "Shit… man, I wish… maybe you could describe him to me. I wouldn't mind knowing, you know? So I can avoid the hell outta him. It was a him, right? I guess it's sort of sexist for me to assume… but… I mean, men are statistically more violent. So."

I'm surprised, and a little amused, that Brian - like me - starts rattling off random statistics when he gets nervous.

"So if you knew who he was you wouldn't say anything," I infer. "You'd just… know who to avoid, yeah?"

"Well - yeah, obviously. I mean - what else would I do? Approach him at the scene of an accident and be like - dude, I know you are a psycho who did a very bad thing to a pal of mine for which I have no proof? Sure. Sounds like a good way to end up looking artfully dead in a basement myself."

"Yeah," I shrug. "We're… uh… in the same boat on that one."

Brian knows this isn't entirely the truth, and raises an eyebrow. "So when does the - uh - bad guy get his just desserts?"

I look away.

"Oh… today?" Brian points. "Is it today? He's getting arrested today?" He fights a smile. "Uh… cool. Nice, I mean."

Wrong.

I play with the cords of my earbuds for a moment. Then I wrap them around my fingers, coiling it, and unzip the front of my backpack. I replace them with a mechanical pencil and a post-it note with the train departure times written on it in my scrawly handwriting. I write on the unused side and fold it quickly, handing it across to Brian.

"What's this?" he asks, taking it from me.

"Don't look at it now," I plead.

"I won't, but, what is it?"

"Who to avoid and not approach at the scene of an accident," I reply cryptically.

His face goes a shade paler. "A name?"

"The name. Feel free to share it with your wife, and Jeff." I stand abruptly, seeing my stop grow suddenly larger as it approaches. "Keep them safe." I scoot away from him quickly, trying to move past people in the aisle to be the first one off.

"Wait," Brian says urgently, before I can quite step out of earshot. "You stay safe too. I mean it. No more craziness for you. Just - god, stay in school. Take care of yourself. Please. You're so young," he adds, in a desperate tone. I am sure he remembers how bad a shape I was in when he saw me last. "My wife and I - we have a kid. A little boy. He's six. I can't imagine if he - if he even came close to doing what you do in a few years. It would kill me."

My mind flashes to Uncle Ben, dead on the street. A bright splash of blood.

Me, unable to stop it.

Can you hear me? Uncle Ben? Uncle Ben?!

I grasp the pole in the middle of the aisle when the train gives a jolt to slow down, groaning and whistling to a halt at our stop.

Please wake up...

"I mean, seriously - if you can tell your parents… or a guardian, what's going on… do what you can," Brian urges. I lock the memories away, in a dark box in my mind where they belong. I couldn't deal with them now - maybe never. Now was not the time.

"Protect yourself," Brian says. "Promise?"

"Promise," I whisper quickly. I press myself forward quickly, dodging people moving towards the exits preemptively.

When the doors slide open, I'm the first one stepping into the slashing rainfall under a dirty, canvas colored sky.

I picture Casey Cooper's face and strengthen my resolve.

Not sure how, but it ends today.

...

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BETA THANKS! 3

As always, A HUGE THANK YOU TO THE QUEEN - Queen of Crystallopia, the beta, the bestest, the badass. She went on vacation recently and I was just beside myself. XD But now she's back and posting again on her incredible Spider-Man story. Don't forget to check out her "Paint it Black" sequel called "SILENT NIGHT". You can find it in my favorites or on her profile!

As always, if you want to see the fan trailer I made for her first book, it's unlisted and fan fiction hates it when we try to share links, you can try using the link below. Just take out the spaces and parenthesis and replace the slash with an actual slash.

(www) . (youtube) . com (slash) (watch?v=TqWlBlVA9Q4&lc=)

But the easiest thing to do is message myself or Queen of Crystallopia on instagram (insta handles shared on respective profile pages) and we'll DM you a link!

...

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REVIEW REPLIES

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HazelSparks2778: Thank you 3 I am so glad you've read both of our stories!

MythologyStar: Your energy is infectious! I love it! Thank you so much for the extra long review, they are my lifeblood! I am so happy you're enjoying it!

Queen of Crystallopia: As always, thank you, thank you, thank you. Love love love!

Shoyzz: I know you're around and being amazing and doing super cool artsy things, so, just wanted to give you a shout out and THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME BE PART OF YOUR JOURNEY! (this Ned quote works on so many levels haha!)

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IN THE NEXT CHAPTER

More Hell's Kitchen intrigue awaits... and there is a tragedy in Morris Park.

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Instagram handles!

...

For fanfiction: pippin_strange

For life, drawings, and more: myapapaya_adventures

For my epic Dungeons & Dragons group: thegildedlillyparty

For my weird obsessions: myas_haunted_things


	33. Stay Gold, Peter Boy

Dearest cohort of readers,

My writers block is officially GONE! Woohoo! I can't wait to finish this story. I'm going to try and write as MUCH as I can this week since I'll be moving over the next few weekends and my usual writing time will be unusually crazy. But the goal is to definitely be done WAY before Infinity War comes out, AND, I've begun editing and rewriting this one already for a CHRONOLOGICAL version which I will post on here and on Archive of Our Own, or "Ao3" as I suppose it's known to be called. Both myself and my beta, Queen of Crystallopia, will be posting our re-worked and improved stories on that website eventually.

Please keep in mind that the NEXT chapter, not this one, shall contain a trigger warning. READ TO THE END to get to personal reviewer replies!

Much love and hugs,

Pippin

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CLASSROOM

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I peer into the classroom, keeping as much of my body in the hallway as possible so as not to alert the room's occupants that I'm looking in.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Ned's lips come far too close to my left ear. "Just go in."

I flinch and pull myself back, turning to face him. "Don't - don't pressure me," I say, in a completely non-convincing tone. "I'm just… scoping it out."

"You're never going to get anywhere if you're on the outside looking in," Ned quips, and then pauses, and glances up at the ceiling. "Am I quoting something?"

"I don't think so," I reply distractedly, looking back in the classroom.

"I'm not? Should I take up songwriting? Because that's pretty good."

"Yeah, yeah, you should," I say.

"Cool," Ned replies, all smiles. He pushes a finger right into the small of my back. "Just go."

In my effort to pull away from him I find myself scooting into the classroom at an unfortunately urgent speed. Several heads snap up to glare at whoever enters their dominion uninvited.

"Hi guys," says Tiny, standing closest to me with a stack of binders in his arms. "What are you doing?"

"Uh, just, uh," I hesitate.

"Dude, you're in here too?" Ned saunters in behind me. "You're literally everywhere. I thought you were doing chess club."

"I'm still doing chess club," Tiny answers suspiciously. "I also do yearbook. And band." He glances up at me. I feel like I tower over him by a good foot and a half. "You quit band."

"Yes, yes I did," I nod emphatically.

"Why did you quit?" Tiny questions, making no move to set down his load, or move out of my way at all.

"I dunno…" I shrug. "I guess I just got sort of bored standing there waiting to hit a pair of giant trashcan lids together."

"They're cymbals," Ned whispers in my ear.

I flinch at the whisper. "Dude - I know! Stop - stop doing that! You're giving me the creeps!"

Ned raises his hands like I tried to help, dude, and wanders off to the left to look at some photos spread out across one of the work tables.

"Huh," Tiny says. "Michelle said you quit because of the Stark internship."

"I had a lot of reasons for quitting band," I sigh. I hadn't realized this was such a sensitive topic.

"So what are you doing in here?" Tiny finally moves off to set his load down on another worktable. "We don't have ANY pictures of you from Homecoming, by the way. Almost everyone has been asking if we got pictures of them in their dresses. Most of the pictures turned out too dark to use. So… sorry."

I blink. "I wasn't wearing a dress, for one thing."

Tiny gives me a look, like I shouldn't even try to specify. "You'll see if you ended up in the yearbook at the end of the year like everyone else."

"No, that's not… that's not why I stopped by."

The room instantly seems to relax, and three other students sitting at the other end of the room go back to whatever project they're working on.

"I was wondering if you needed more photographers," I ask meekly. "I was… thinking about trying out photography. And the thing is, I don't have a camera, but if I sign up for yearbook, I can use the school camera, and the school dark room, and get you guys a lot of photos… like… you know… student life and cool…" I falter at Tiny's incredulous expression. "... stuff."

"It's too late in the year to join yearbook staff," Tiny replies awkwardly. "We're full."

"Oh - oh, yeah, that's okay," I shrug like it's no big deal, adjusting my backpack straps awkwardly.

I try to back out of the room without looking and run into Ned, who, once again, is standing too close and too silently behind me. He makes a oomph sound. "Dude," I hiss.

"Wingman?" Ned offers.

"I don't need a wingman to join yearbook?" I reply, pleadingly.

Ned gives me another chastising look, as if he believes otherwise and I'm just too young to understand his wisdom.

"Try for next year," Tiny says.

"What?" I turn back. "Next year?"

"We're losing like… four seniors next year. But you have to actually add your name when the sign-up sheets are out at the end of the year. Okay?" Tiny opens a binder and looks with a critical eye over pictures from the Washington D.C. trip. He rolls his eyes and shuts it before Ned and I can get a good look. "I don't make the rules!"

"Sure. I get it. Thanks," I say this quickly and nearly run over Ned to flee the room.

"Slow down," Ned pants exaggeratingly, following me back out into the hallway. "Since when is joining yearbook a matter of life and death?"

The phrasing hits me particularly hard, and I shake away the flashbacks of roving red and blue lights. The black glint of a body bag, with someone inside.

The coroner rolling it away…

"It's not!" I protest. "I just second guess myself, is all."

"As well you should," Ned replies with some flair. "Keeping up appearances is important. If you suddenly lose all your un-coolness and walk around with all the suave confidence of an Avenger… someone is bound to notice."

"Shhhh," I wave my hand at him and glance around. There's only a few groups still loitering around, heading off to their own after-school clubs or practices. No one pays us any attention.

"No one is listening," Ned promises. "We're still losers." He taps his nose and winks. "Our cover is working."

This makes me smile. "You think?"

"Of course. And yearbook is a nice way to throw them off track. We're simply cementing our roles as incurable nerds. Maybe I should join the chess club."

We both shake our heads simultaneously.

"Nope, just kidding," Ned shudders. "I'll play with Legos and keep my geekiness at home. You're free to join whatever nerdy-after-school-club you can. But I'm through with committing social suicide, thank you."

I close my eyes briefly, as if touched by slim, indecipherable pain, like a paper cut that you can't find. "Let's talk about something else," I say quickly. "I need a distraction."

"Let's talk about Michelle," Ned offers.

My shoes squeak against the linoleum floor when I skid to a halt. A comedy couldn't have placed better sound effects. Dead man no longer walking, here.

It makes me instantly look guilty. "Why Michelle?"

"I don't know, we're friends now? She said so. Maybe we should ask her if she wants to study at my house with us after school tomorrow."

I resume keeping pace with him. "Uh… sure."

"What? Do you not want to?"

I don't know what he wants me to say. I wish it were Liz instead - Liz who moved away nearly two weeks ago now? Or I almost like Michelle a little too much to want her to be there when we're just hanging out and goofing around? Maybe I want to keep my cool a little longer? Maybe I just like her in general but not enough to want to hang out?

If I'm guilty of anything, it's my own bullshit.

"Sounds fun," I comment lightly, trying to actively choose to not let my anxieties take the driver's seat for once. "But… tomorrow… I can't. After school, I mean. I have… stuff. You know."

"Say no more," Ned sighs. "Heroes gotta do what a heroes gotta do." His eyes bulge. "That's a quote from something. Right? Is it Firefly? Or… the burnt-faced guy from the gothic city in Black Cape 2?"

"I don't know… I don't think so. I think that's all you, buddy."

He nods slowly, his eyes still huge. "Dang, I'm really good."

I turn towards him, suddenly sentimental. "Thanks for hanging out with me. This was fun."

He looks sort of suspicious at my admission. "Uh huh. Yeah. This is fun."

"I know I was sort of awol these last couple of days. There's been a lot of stuff going on."

"I figured, I guess," Ned looks around before leaning in to whisper. "Is there stuff going on with the guy who… y'know…"

I shake my head, at first. "No, not really… I mean, yeah, but there was some other stuff too. Just… Spider-Man stuff."

"Uh huuuh," Ned nods slowly, waiting for me to actually tell the truth or just get to a point.

"Something is going to happen," I confess. "It's… um, top secret. Not even Aunt May knows about this - so you can't let it slip, okay?"

His eyes light up with intrigue. "Dude, I won't say anything. I promise."

"I'm going to Hell's Kitchen tomorrow. Hopefully for the last time. And I'll be… taking care of something."

He tilts his head with confusion. "Last time? How many times have you been to Hell's kitchen since you were kidnapped, anyway?"

"Too many," I whisper. "But no more. I have one more trip. And then I'm done. I promise."

"Why are you promising ME?" Ned points to himself like I need to be reminded who I'm speaking with. "If Spider-Man has to go to Hell's Kitchen… I mean… that's cool, I guess?"

"Cuz you're my guy in the chair," I remind him. "But I put you in the back seat. I'm sorry. I just need you to hang out there for just a little longer. And then… I don't know. We're back to normal?"

Ned gives my shoulder a gentle slap. "Normal is boring."

"Yeah," I laugh, "Normal." As much as I try to keep my voice level - and normal - as my best friend, he sees something is off, and I realize he is beginning to zero in on it, like a cat narrowing it's eyes on a laserpoint.

"This isn't going to be like a Liam Neeson sort of thing, is it?" he asks. "Or Rambo? You're not going to Rambo someone, are you?"

I can't even imagine what he means by Rambo-ing someone. I shake my head. "I don't think so."

"You don't THINK so?" Ned nearly shrieks, way too loud for my preference. We stop at his locker, and he turns quickly, dials the combination, and then pops it open to form a sort of shield for our conversation. He uses the door to glance around, and then speaks from behind it. "Dude," he whispers. "You need to decide BEFORE you go anywhere what exactly the endgame is. If you wing it and do something like, totally crazy, like, they're gonna know it was you, and then of course they'll know I'm your best friend, and I'm too young for prison - okay?"

I blink. "I don't know what you're thinking, but whatever it is, that's not what I'm doing."

"You're sure?"

I falter. "Yes?"

"Don't say it like it's a QUESTION!" Ned insists in a panicked tone. "Tell me this whole thing isn't some glorified revenge spree where you end up dead and I'm your jailed accomplice."

The word revenge has a nice ring to it, sure, but I squash it down. Way, way down.

"Calm down, Ned," I assure. "It's not like that. But I have something I have to do. It might be idiotic… and dangerous… but it doesn't involve cold-blooded murder. Okay?"

He sighs with relief, holding out his hand. "Promise?"

"Promise," I say, and we shake on it. It's our own special handshake, and it's a promise I won't break.

But he was right about one thing; I'm winging it, so there's really no boundaries on doing something 'totally crazy'. There's plenty of ways for me to find closure other than murdering the guy… right? That's what I'm looking for.

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MORRIS PARK

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…

Coincidence leads me to Morris Park.

The lights make me stay.

I perch on the highest building I can find at the moment, a local hospital, and adjust the straps on my backpack to catch a glimpse of whatever is going on at the scene below.

Morris Park is an older, familial, majority Italian neighborhood. People would say it's the safest, calmest place in the Bronx. Of course it has crime like anywhere else - but, maybe at a much lower rate.

So the flashing lights confuse me.

And I stay.

If the cops are already on the scene of an accident, there isn't much preventative work I can do. It's not a robbery in progress that I can stop using super strength and zesty one-liners. No one is holding a gun to anyone.

There's no sirens, only the echoes of red and blue splashing against the old houses, cramped two-story homes built by bricks and loved by large families. It's a nice place.

I remember the mother of the little girl I rescued from the fire - she said she was staying with her parents here. It's a nice place to live, and I'm happy for her. It was nice of her to offer me a place to go, too. It was nothing but kindness on her part. I mean yeah, sure, I rescued her daughter from a flaming inferno - but I was still a stranger in a mask!

The 49th precinct is parked in front of a house, a small brick single-story with blue and white trim. There's a crowd milling around on the sidewalk beyond the CAUTION tape, looking for answers.

The police a rolling a gurney out of the front door of the home, a body inside the black bag. There's a horrible wail that rents the air - two voices, a man and a woman, from inside the house.

"Karen?" I ask quietly, afraid of the answer.

"Yes, Peter?"

"With everything you have access to… anything at all… can you tell me who lives at that house?"

"Certainly. The home belongs to Dennis and Carol Matthews."

"Kim Matthews parents," I fill in quietly. The woman from the fire. From the apartment high rise.

"Matthews is not an uncommon name," Karen says sweetly. It's almost unsettling the way Karen uses AI intelligence for the primary human effort of comfort. "I have many of them located in this area… would you like me to research them for you?"

"No," I reply. I feel a sick, twisted feeling in my gut. I peel myself off the edge of the wall, drop onto a sill below, and crawl - headfirst - down the side of the building. My fingers bracing my body weight against the wall. When I reach average height level, I let myself loose and land in a crouch on the asphalt below.

For a moment I breathe heavily, collapsing with a frustrated huff against the wall. I look up at the night sky and wish I was higher up again. Ground levels distress me. Basements distress me even more. If having a building fall on me wasn't enough, getting kidnapped certainly did the trick.

"Is there anything I can assist with?" Karen asks. "Your anxiety level is fairly high."

"No, I'm fine," I squeak out a reply. I shirk out of my backpack, and tug my mask until it squeezes off my head. Then I tap the spider in my chest, and the suit uncinches.

Karen goes silent.

I slip out of the suit, shaking out my boxer shorts and T-shirt. They're a little tacky with sweat but not horribly. I pull my hoodie and jeans out of my backpack and put them on carefully, peering out from behind the wall and checking corners, lights, and any rustle that I'm aware of.

The spider-suit gets wadded up and placed inside the bag. I wait for a second, almost believing that Karen will ask why it's so dark in there and how can I be expected to look for heat signatures when she's put away.

Naturally I can't hear her at all without the earpiece repaired, and no loose wires projecting her voice from a severed audio output mechanism in the neck.

The night is quiet, save another cry of grief echoing down the concrete jungle.

I slip the backpack on and trudge out into the parking lot towards the neighborhood where the lights flash on, and off. On again.

...

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Feel free to skip to the end to bypass PERSONAL review replies, a 'coming soon' tag, and instagram/Youtube information, etc, and head straight on down to the 'review' button. OR you can definitely read all the bonus features :) Thanks for joining me!

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* * *

 **BETA THANKS!**

SHE IS BETA THAN ME, BETA THAN THEM... yes, she's just the best.

Queen of Crystallopia! Round of applause because your beta is the best! Without her I probably would have just given up ages ago.

Don't forget to check out her "Paint it Black" sequel called "SILENT NIGHT". You can find it in my favorites or on her profile. CAN WE JUST FANGIRL OVER HOW FREAKING AMAZING HER STORY IS? I can't EVEN HANDLE the feels. Literally I freak out.

Also, as her beta and biggest fan, I made a fan trailer for her first book PAINT IT BLACK and posted it on YouTube. It's unlisted to keep YouTube from deleting it. I'd love for you to see it! Since fan fiction hates it when we try to share links, you can try using the link below. Just take out the spaces and parenthesis and replace the slash with an actual slash.

(www) . (youtube) . com (slash) (watch?v=TqWlBlVA9Q4&lc=)

OR, you can direct message myself or Queen of Crystallopia on instagram (insta handles shared on respective profile pages) and we'll send a link!

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 **REVIEW REPLIES**

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cherubino19: Thank you so much for sticking around for more updates! I truly appreciate it! There's definitely more to come :)

WynonaRose: There's DEFINITELY going to be a lot of closure for this, and hopefully brings us right up to where Peter will step in to Infinity War. I hope. ;)

TheMysteriousT: I really really want to write a scene where Peter tells Tony literally EVERYTHING about Uncle Ben, but I have such a hard time writing things that aren't canon, or can't be explained by canon already there. Even just writing this story is such a stretch for my imagination! Since Peter didn't tell Tony about it during Civil War, I hope, hope, hope the conversation comes up in Infinity War. BELIEVE me, if there is a throw-away line where Tony says "After you told me all that stuff about your uncle..." then you'd best believe I will be writing that scene like a crazy person!

Wedonthavetodance: I have to say, I am slightly obsessed with your username, I love it SO much. :D Thank you SO MUCH for reading!

BJAfan: Oh my goodness, what a compliment! I am so pleased that you are enjoying my story. All my effort has been aimed for capturing character voices, that's my main goal. Thank you SO much for reading and rejoining us here on the fanfiction net. Glad to have you back!

Queen of Crystallopia: I'M FANGIRLING WITH YOU IN A SEPARATE CHAT FEATURE RIGHT NOW ;) ;) Thank you for your everlasting support! You're the best beta ever! (happy tears)

Nindragon: Hey, I'll hold him, and you punch! ;) (sorry, had to throw out an obscure Mulan quote). I am so glad you're still reading my story! Thanks for your patience during my lil' writer break! :)

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 **COMING SOON...**

When Peter is faced with an inexplicable tragedy that he feels responsible for being unable to prevent, it's time to learn some hard truths from his guardians and mentors.

And, as always, Hell's Kitchen still tugs away at his heart.

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Instagram handles!

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For fanfiction and NERD STUFF: pippin_strange

For life, drawings, and more: myapapaya_adventures

For my epic Dungeons & Dragons group: thegildedlillyparty

For my weird obsessions: myas_haunted_things

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DON'T FORGET TO SEE **BLACK PANTHER** THIS WEEK! AND THEN SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS! I am going to try and see it opening day!


	34. Take On Me

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Dear Reviewers:

Please consider this a trigger warning for suicidal content. This does not condone, glorify, or describe in great detail anything suicidal, but rather the repercussions and effects on those left behind after someone has died. It's about the emotions, not the act itself, nor do I describe the action of it in ANY WAY. I'm not going to pull a 13 Reason Why here. More like a 13 Thoughts on WHY NOT. I will also note it is based on personal experience and it's a personal way of dealing with it, with the hopes that others with shared experiences find that commonality in this story and the characters I am borrowing for a time.

All the love,

Pip

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MORRIS PARK

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I draw near the crowd that has gathered on the sidewalk. They appear to be neighbors; maybe some of them friends.

"Does anyone know what happened?" I ask.

No one hears me.

The paramedics shut the double doors behind the gurney.

"Can anyone please tell me what happen?" I ask, louder this time, my voice shrill.

The man in the yellow rain-slicker in front of me turns and glances over his shoulder at me. "DOA," he replies in a thick Bronx accent.

"Dee… dee oh A?" I repeat, confusedly. "What… what does that mean?"

"Dead on arrival," the man explains. He looks like an old sea salt, someone who belongs in an equally yellow hat battling squalls on the high seas in a fishing vessel. He rubs at the inconsistent white stubble on his chin. "Suicide. Tragic thing."

"Do you know who died?" I ask.

"I think maybe their daughter. Such a sad situation - lovely girl. Nice daughter. Depressed, though, had a lot of problems, maybe drugs… I don't know. There wasn't a gunshot or nothing - she must of killed herself some other way." He shakes his head. "Really a shame. Damn, she was too young for that."

"What's their daughter's name?"

"Kim," he turns and looks at me, more suspiciously. "You like a friend? Or a reporter, or something? I ain't talking to the press, so you can unquote me on all that."

"I'm - not - a reporter," I say unsteadily.

"Oh, yeah," he squints me. "You're a little young yourself."

I reach out to support myself on the mailbox beside us on the sidewalk, misjudge my distance, and nearly fall.

"Whoa, steady," says the man, his expression softening. "Friend, then," he assumes. "Sorry, kid. This ain't no place for you then - get on home. Go on," he gently turns my elbow and shoos me down the sidewalk. "Friend shouldn't have to see this. Go home to your folks now, do your homework."

He watches me steadily until he is sure that I won't fight him on this. When I'm far enough along down the sidewalk, he turns and continues watching the emergency personnel.

I point myself in the direction of Williamsbridge road, where I know I can board a train that will eventually aim me for Queens. It's not a long walk, maybe two or three blocks. It'd be faster with web - but what would I use it on? The chimneys of the one, two story homes? It would work even less than the night of Liz's party.

And besides, I want to walk. I want to think. Think - think - think…

But I can't think. I can barely walk, but I force myself, trying to concentrate on finding the train station. I can do that, just that. Maybe if I can do that, I can figure out what else to do.

I turn my face towards the darkness.

…

…

THE STAIRWELL

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…

It feels weird casually walking into the building (even something as private as a maintenance stairwell) side by side with an individual that I've now met twice.

Kim's nervous, and tucking her blond hair behind her ears. She looks pretty underneath the haunted look, the bags under her eyes, the body weighed with exhaustion and something else that I can't put my finger on.

I hold the door open for her, and then let it fall shut behind us.

"Thanks," she says, with a smile.

"Yeah," I shrug, walking down the stairs with her. Our footsteps echo against the cement walls, trailing musically down the stairwell. Some old fluorescent lights flicker above, bouncing off the shadowed, water-stained walls. It's not a well-maintained area, and puts my senses on alert. I find myself walking slightly ahead of her, checking corners before she reaches them.

"May I ask how old you are?" she questions. "You seem so young."

"Uhhhh," I respond awkwardly.

"Oh, you don't have to answer," she says quickly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"It's okay," I respond, feeling that I don't have to be entirely paranoid around her. "I'm fifteen."

"Well shit," she breathes. "Sweetheart. Aren't you a little young to be putting yourself in danger like this?"

"I gotta do what I do," I try to say with a casual smirk. We round the corner, and go down another level. "Which floor you on?"

"Three more," she answers, and falls silent.

"So…" I remember Karen's advisement of her distress. "It seemed like you were pretty upset about something. Is everything okay?"

Her breath hitches, and it's my turn to apologize. "Now I'm prying," I snicker a little. "Sorry."

"It's nice for you to ask," she replies, hesitantly. "I just needed a space to think… and… well, grieve, I guess."

"What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

She brings up her shoulders to her ears briefly, less of a shrug and more like building a small, bodily shield against the emotions that flood her by my asking. "I lost my custody of my kid today. We had the trial… and…" She bites her lip, unable to continue.

"I'm so sorry," I say sorrowfully. My overwhelming sympathy for her seems muffled by the mask, and I almost wish I was just Peter Parker right now, instead of Spiderman, to better provide some comfort.

"I have to go downstairs and tell her," she went on, "I'll get her on weekends… still… sleepovers with Mommy. It's not the same… she'll be living with him in his new apartment. We couldn't prove his current drug use, but they were able to prove my use two years ago, so…"

"I don't… I don't understand that," I reply weakly.

"She can choose who she loves when she's eighteen," Kim says curtly.

"I'm sure she still loves you," I say with an awkward hitch in my voice. "Court doesn't decide that, right?"

"I don't know," Kim whispers softly. Her voice is full of despair. "Guess I won't know till she's eighteen. I might as well not exist till then."

"How old is she?"

"Just turned six."

"So… that's twelve years from now?" I ask hesitantly. "I know… I know it seems like forever - but - isn't it worth it?"

"She is," Kim says. "But maybe I'm not."

"I know it doesn't seem like that," I say, with an urgency that I don't understand. "But I'm… I'm thinking about this from her perspective. I'd give anything to see my parents again. Anything. If someone told me I only had twelve years left before I could spend time with them… I'd take it. Doesn't matter how long it takes."

She seems warmed by this admission. "You sound like you've been through a lot." We pause, and I realize we're at the door onto her floor. She opens it onto a cramped apartment hallway. "It's admirable that you're so… helpful. And friendly. After whatever crap you've been through. Most people turn that suffering inward."

I gaze at her steadily, unsure of what to say. My lenses adjust slightly, and it makes her laugh. "You don't have to say anything more," she waves a hand. "I've taken too much of your time already."

"No, not at all," I say. "This is my time. Helping… people. Doing things. I guess." Part of me wants to say that I'm no saint and I do plenty of angsty suffering on the inside, and rarely open up in a healthy way. "Listen," I add. "I'm not really the best person to give advice about this. I'm just a kid."

"Spiderkid," she says with a wink, elbowing me slightly. "Has a nice ring to it, huh?"

"Sure," I try to laugh a little with her. "It's just… I want to say… hang in there? No, no, I don't want to say that, that sucks… I'm really bad at this. I just hope everything turns out okay."

"Even if it takes twelve years to get there?"

"Especially if it takes twelve years," I nod fervently. "There shouldn't be… be... an expiration date, ya know? And - I bet if anything - I bet your daughter is going to really look forward to turning eighteen."

She smiles and nods, and the pause between our conversation falls naturally. It's time for her to go inside and tell her daughter what happened today. It's time for me to go home. "Thanks for walking me home, Spiderman," she smiles. "You get - home - safely. Home? Right? You've got to have a home. A place where you stay."

"I do," I nod wholeheartedly again. "And, you're welcome. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

"See you," I wave, awkwardly.

"She seems much calmer," Karen's voice chimes in as I turn away and go back up the maintenance stairs. As soon as the door clicks shut onto Kim's floor, I send a spiral of webbing up the center, open area of the stairwell, till I hear it splat against the roof above the maintenance door. I pull myself up with an oomph, cutting the time to get to the top by half.

I detach myself from the web when I reach the landing, plopping down on the entry and pushing the door back open.

A cold, sharp wind whistles around me, buffeting hard against my body and nearly pushing me back. It reminds me once more just how high this building is.

I go over to the fire-escape ladder that Kim was holding on to when I approached, climbing up it myself and peering over the side. Below, New York is spread out like a black blanket twinkling with stars, or rather the headlights and streetlights of thousands of people. Thirty, maybe forty stories high? Fifty, at the most. It's not the tallest building in Manhattan by a long shot but it's high enough.

The cacophony of the city returns; a siren, a dog barking, traffic in the smaller, cramped streets between high-rises and faster white noise of the freeway. Everything that an underground room is not.

…

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HOME

…

...

I get home, late. I unlock the apartment door and slip inside, shutting and relocking behind me. Aunt May is waiting on the couch. She stands, uncertain. For a moment I'm afraid she'd waiting up for me because something happened - she has a look on her face, one that I can't decipher.

"What?" I ask, sharper than I intended.

"You were gone late," she says carefully. "Honey…" She makes a winding gesture with her finger pointed at her face. "You look… not okay."

I don't answer, I shake my head, and I sniff. My eyes are bloodshot.

"Are you okay?"

I drop my backpack on the floor and walk towards her. I think she's surprised when I put my arms around her for a hug. I've been getting taller. I feel like I'm almost too tall to do it without suffocating her.

I'm crying a little, so she responds by suffocating me right back, embracing me and rubbing my back and saying comforting phrases that I forget instantly.

"Sorry if I worried you," I whisper.

"You're worrying me a little right now," she replies, "but you don't have to say sorry for it." She pulls back and pushes hair away from my face. "What's wrong?" she asks.

I shrug, walking to the couch and falling into it with a heavy breath. She sits right beside me, unwilling to give me any space.

"You can talk to me," she urges, her voice pained by my lack of being upfront. "Remember? Anything, anytime. I'm always here for you."

"Someone died tonight," I whisper. "I couldn't save her. Spider-Man couldn't save her." I scrub at my eyes with one hand, and then drop it in my lap uselessly.

She rubs at my back again. "I'm so sorry, Peter."

"She killed herself," I explain. "I feel so horrible about it. And I… don't understand why."

"It's okay to not understand," May whispers. "You can live your whole life and not understand why these sorts of things happen. I wish I did. Because then I could help you." She pauses. "How can I help you?" she asks. "Do you want me to go?"

"No," I say shortly, and then I begin crying anew.

She wraps her arms around me and doesn't let go.

…

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Author's Note: Like I said before, dealing with some personal stuff, which always leaks through to my writing. Please remember Kim and her circumstances are 100% fictional, but the feelings are pretty real. I was really upset when someone I knew through work committed suicide, and felt I couldn't properly grieve because of the way we were connected. We weren't friends, or even co-workers. But I had a conversation with her before she died much like Peter had with Kim, and I had felt like we were really bonding. When she died I felt so weird - and I thought, I can't be the ONLY person who has felt this way or had this happen, which that line of thinking will eventually lead my real and personal situation into my fictional realms. So if you, as a reader, have felt that way, maybe it was a classmate or a very distant relative or acquaintance that died and you felt cheated out of grief by your lack of connection with them - don't. It's okay to grieve for someone you barely know. It's okay to be sad from these things. If you've been on the other side of this and you've wanted to die, just know that every person out there might care for you in their own way. There's a whole world out there that doesn't know you personally, but STILL wishes you health and happiness.

I'm just a friendly customer service voice on the other end of a phone for my day job, but I earnestly hope for every single person I speak to that they feel loved and whole and worthy. Even if you don't feel that way now, give it time. Happiness and mental wellness has no expiration date. Sometimes it's just late, but if you give it time, you can have it too.

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 **Bonus Features**

Feel free to skip to the end to bypass PERSONAL review replies, a 'coming soon' tag, and instagram/Youtube information, etc, and head straight on down to the end of the document. Your reviews are appreciated!

...

* * *

(Crying because I have the best beta in the world)

Queen of Crystallopia is my amazing writerly twin, my comrade in arms, and lately, my inspiration! It takes TWO SECONDS of chatting with her to make me want to exit Netflix and write for HOURS! She's super cool like that.

Please check out her amazing books here on fan fiction, "Paint it Black" and the sequel called "SILENT NIGHT". Both are literally THE BEST SPIDER-MAN FANFICTIONS YOU WILL EVER READ IN YOUR LIFE. You can find it in my favorites or on her profile.

Also, as her beta and biggest fan, I made a fan trailer for her first book PAINT IT BLACK and posted it on YouTube. It's unlisted to keep YouTube from deleting it. I'd love for you to see it! Since fan fiction hates it when we try to share links, you can try using the link below. Just take out the spaces and parenthesis and replace the slash with an actual slash.

(www) . (youtube) . com (slash) (watch?v=TqWlBlVA9Q4&lc=)

OR, you can direct message myself or Queen of Crystallopia on instagram (insta handles shared on respective profile pages) and we'll send a link!

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 **REVIEW REPLIES**

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BJAfan: Oh man, I wish the photography subplot will have more of a payoff, but I'm afraid of getting your hopes up. I hope to just drop hints and nods to the original Spider-Man canon we all know and love, particularly when it comes to an adult Peter Parker. I don't know how long Tom Holland will play Spider-Man (I hope it's forever till he's an old man and I'm going to the movie theater with a walker) but I'm HOPING they get him to the Daily Bugle someday. Thanks for the heads up about AO3! I am super stoked to start posting stories there, especially the re-edited and improved and CHRONOLOGICAL version of this story!

Shoyzz: Aw good to see you my friend! I have been FREAKING OUT over your art on insta. It's SO AMAZING. You are incredibly talented!

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* * *

 **COMING SOON...**

Peter finds himself in Hell's Kitchen, again and again, and again... He doesn't even understand his own intentions, and he fears that choosing one will push him down a path of darkness that he'll regret.

* * *

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Instagram handles!

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For fanfiction and NERD STUFF: pippin_strange

For life, drawings, and more: myapapaya_adventures

For my epic Dungeons & Dragons group: thegildedlillyparty

For my weird obsessions: myas_haunted_things

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* * *

GUYS I SAW **BLACK PANTHER** THIS WEEKEND! IT WAS TOTALLY AMAZING. When you see it, let's talk about that end credits scene, OK?!


	35. TRACKS

…

...

Dear Reviewers:

Thank you so much for reading! I am grateful for you! Sorry it took so long to upload, I've finally moved and moving and unpacking has taken over MY LIFE. We only just got wifi yesterday, praise de lord. Looking forward to posting regularly again! I am DESPERATE to finish this fic before Infinity War comes out, and as of today they've just MOVED the release date to like an entire week EARLY! April 27 instead of May 4, WOOHOO! Who's excited?

When you leave a review, leave me your thoughts on the date change! Excited, or weirded out?

Love,

Pip

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* * *

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...

THE TRAIN

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…

Somewhere between the East River and Murray Hill, I find myself on an empty train car. The last occupant gets off, and the doors slide shut.

Then the rocking motion begins again, the clatter of rails, the sounds of traffic passing by outside. Lights whirl speedily by the black windows.

I replay my conversation with Kim over and over in my head. She was a stranger I met twice. But she had connected with Spider-Man, and by doing so, connected with me - but I don't know how to handle that. It's so easy to brush daily interactions with Spider-Man aside as something that doesn't affect my personal life. To some nice lady, I'm a hero who gave her directions. To some guys on the street, I'm a cool hero who does backflips. To Liz, I'm the hero who saved her in the elevator. To some people I'm just a freak in a suit webbing them to a car that they own.

But how am I supposed to calculate what any of these people mean to me? Acquaintances? Friends? Pseudo-humans that lose significance by the fact I'll never see any of them again?

I know the last isn't true, because that's not how heroes function. That's what makes us different - everyone is special and worth saving.

 _Is Casey Cooper worth saving?_ My brain whispers nastily back.

I feel the emotions bubbling up inside of me until I can't hold it in. The train car is empty, and my dignity gone. I pull my knees into my chest and bury my forehead against them, sobbing wholeheartedly - selfishly. A young woman is dead tonight and all I can think about is how I feel. What about her parents? Her friends? Her daughter?

 _What about me?_ I think, unable to stop. _What am I supposed to do with this? Clearly I had a GREAT influence on her._

Eventually I sit up, forcing myself to press my forehead against the cold window to try and sooth the throbbing in my skull. There are a few things I am certain about - one, I can't save everyone, right? Uncle Ben, Kim. People whose names I'll never know. Two, I'm so angry about Officer Cooper that it overrides anything else - even something as tragic as this. Even when I should focus on it, grieve in my own way, I still think about him and trying to measure his worth against everything else.

Why IS that? Why do I do that?

At this point I wonder if I should text Mr. Stark and tell him what's going on. But what would I even say?

 _Hi, Mr. Stark. I'm sad about the guy who hurt me. But I still don't want to press charges, I'd rather handle it and brood. BYE!_

That would be utterly ridiculous.

I do pull out my phone however, but only because it buzzed first.

I am astonished to see it is a text from Mr. Stark, and the timing is both surprising and unfortunate. I feel as if I'm being interrupted somehow.

* * *

Mr. Stark - Not too late to change your mind. Food for thought. Be sure to check your email for the reservations I sent.

Mr. Stark - You and Aunt May - nice dinner at Ko, two weeks from now. I'll send a car.

* * *

I blink in shock. Ko is one of the most expensive and fancy restaurants that I think I've ever heard of. Never in a million years would think I would ever eat there. I guess when you know someone like Tony Stark with a huge guilt complex…

I type back, simply.

* * *

You - Thank you, Mr. Stark. I know Aunt May will freak out.

Mr. Stark - Karen's been pinging us some interesting locations. You still the friendly neighborhood guy? Or expanding?

You - Just a little. It's a big city.

* * *

My fingers fly over the virtual keyboard to keep him from being suspicious. Of thinking… anything at all. He replies in a reasonable amount of time.

* * *

Mr. Stark - Certainly.

* * *

I start to reply, and realize it doesn't warrant a reply.

I've had a bit of a rough day...

backspace...

Sorry about Tuesday, I just wanted to see…

backspace…

What you thought I was doing on Tuesday, I wasn't.

backspace...

But I will. I need to be stopped.

backspace…

* * *

You - …

You - …

You - …

You - …

You - ...

Mr. Stark - It's no trouble. I go way back with the people who own the restaurant. My treat. Least I can do.

You - really, thank you.

Mr. Stark - Everything okay?

You - …

You - …

You - Everything's fine

Mr. Stark - Remember when I made you promise me a little something about healthy communication?

* * *

I do, and that's the problem. I promised to confide in him when I was overwhelmed like this. And I was doing the exact opposite now.

* * *

You - I remember

Mr. Stark - Anything you want to share with the class, then?

You - I just had a really rough day

You - that's all

You - it doesn't have anything to do with last week if that's what you're wondering

Mr. Stark - Aha

Mr. Stark - So what happened?

You - …

You - …

You - Couldn't save someone in time. She died

Mr. Stark - …

Mr. Stark - …

Mr. Stark - I know what that feels like, kiddo. It's a shitty thing to happen. Sorry.

* * *

It's simple, and exactly what I didn't expect - but realized I needed to hear.

* * *

You - Thanks. Really.

Mr. Stark - Home yet?

* * *

Not sure how he knew I wasn't home unless he personally has my AI pinging my location even when the suit is stuffed in a backpack, but I ignore this.

* * *

You - No but on my way

Mr. Stark - Good.

* * *

…

…

HELL'S KITCHEN

…

…

I approach the Midtown South Precinct, hands in pockets. In broad daylight, nothing looks amiss. It shouldn't look amiss. I watch a black speck whir off into the air, eight tiny legs invisible against the bright sky. We'll see what sort of intel I get at the end of the day.

For a moment, I look at the precinct. It's a normal, older building, retro-looking. All brown and black brick with a couple of AC units sticking out of a few upper story windows on the left side.

It looks like its only three stories tall. People don't really realize how many short buildings are tucked away in this city unless you're a crime-stopping hero who needs skyscrapers every few feet for speedy getaways.

I stay across the street. I pull my hood up over my head and dart into an indent between connecting buildings, feeling the suit beneath my clothes. I'm beside a freight entrance, there's almost too much traffic for me to feel fully comfortable, but, it's better than going inside a building and losing my visual, and then getting in trouble for loitering about in some random place for 5 hours.

I sit on the cold cement, drawing my knees up to my chest and resting my chin on them. For all they know, I'm one of the many homeless. Maybe it's cruel to sit here and pretend I'm in need when I don't need anything at all, but I imagine the other Avengers have done worse than wear a gray hoodie and sit on the asphalt.

There's nothing wrong with surveillance. It's the least of my crimes, and certainly one that Tony Stark could not give me any crap about without having to take a serious look in the mirror first.

I wait. I wait all afternoon, evening, night. NYPD cars and vans pass by me like clockwork. I watch the officers come and go; arresting officers, parole officers, traffic officers. Lawyers, district attorneys, prosecutors, jurors, criminals, families, victims, witnesses and suspects. I don't know the identity of the people I see unless they have a uniform that explicitly says so, but I take educated guesses.

Then I see him.

My heart drops from my chest to my stomach, I feel as if my equilibrium catches and ceases in mid-air, as if an entire action sequence in a movie theater was abruptly paused and the reel stays on a single image, flickering and trying to continue spinning.

Officer Casey Cooper comes down the steps in plain clothes, hitching a jacket up over his elbow and pressing a phone to his ear. The movement is so normal and human that it makes him more terrifying. How can someone so evil and primal walk around like this? How can someone not make eye contact with him and know he's a monster?

I scramble to my feet, my movements disjointed, broken, child-like.

He laughs at the phone call. Nodding, gesturing. He crams it between his ear and shoulder to hold it, using both arms to put on his jacket.

"I'm telling you," he's saying. My ears stop ringing with shock long enough to finally hear his voice across the crowded street with diagonal parking on either side. "I'm telling you it's my turn to pick out the movie tonight, hon. We watched your horror film last week. You know I hate that shit." He laughs again. "I don't know, I was hoping for a comedy. Something normal with a couple of recurring characters from SNL." He pauses. "Yes. Fine. Anything with Will Ferrell. Sounds good. See you in a bit." He hangs up, and begins to scan the street. His eyes rove from his left - my right - over to…

I shoot backwards, body slamming against the wall with heavy oomph.

... I can't breathe.

… can't …

I turn and walk like a jolted, wooden doll into the freight entrance of the building. The cement instantly resounds the echo of my footsteps to unreasonable volume, so it sounds as if I am in a massive underground cave from science fiction instead of the entrance of a low-ceilinged parking garage.

Someone at the booth by the reflective, yellow boom barrier shouts through the window at me.

"Hey!" says a woman in a thick Bronx accent. "You can't be in here! Vehicles only!"

I turn immediately and skirt back out, feeling lost and dazed.

I shouldn't have come here… I shouldn't have come here… I shouldn't have come here…

I go back to my hiding place. I lean against the wall, trying to steady the beat in my chest. I feels like Thor's hammer is trapped in my chest cavity and he's calling for it. Any minute now and it'll burst out, blood and lungs splattering against the sidewalk.

I breathe slowly and count down.

Three.

Breathe.

Two

Breathe… and hold.

One.

I peer around the building corner again.

He's gone.

I sink down to the ground again, shaking and trembling, but not from the cold.

The sun sets at last, a blinding golden light disappearing from the reflective windows and surfaces, dropping down behind the building edges and skylines that I cannot see from here. I feel deep within New York city here, as if Hell's kitchen is actually a fissure inside the city, taking us closer to its namesake, but without the heat. My limbs seizing with a biting sensation quickly becoming numb.

I stick my hands in my pockets, resuming my average shuffle, and go back into the street.

Jaywalking once or twice to make my escape, I skirt through traffic, the streetlights beginning to flicker on in the twilight. Business fronts become glowing, beckoning beacons of food and drink, but I have to ignore the good things creeping into my sensory perceptions until I find an alley, far from the precinct.

I put my mask on and climb, the movements as robotic as if my AI took over me entirely. Peter Cyborg has a nice ring to it. If only all panic attacks felt this way… less vomit, less hyperventilating, less fainting. I guess I can subscribe to having more than one kind. Why can't they all be like this? This one feels metallic, senseless, thoughtless. My body is not my own and my mind is a blank box of absolute nothing. I move on pure muscle memory.

When I get to the roof, I fall into it, instead of landing gracefully. Somehow this solid thump jolting through me sort of… reboots my system, I guess. I blink as I lay back on the rooftop, looking upside-down at the air ducts and AC units sticking up like dinosaur-shaped heads rearing out of a canopy.

I sit up and brush myself off. "Hey Karen," I say, sort of sheepishly.

"How can I help?"

"Tell me where Droney is."

"He's following Officer Casey Cooper, as you requested."

"What is he doing now?"

"Stopping at the Redbox Kiosk on 52nd and Broadway."

"Getting a movie," I respond bitterly. "Great!" I send off a stream of web in the direction of the closest, highest building. "Let's go join his party."

"I strongly advise against joining his party..."

"It's sarcasm, Karen," I say, launching myself into the cold of the falling night sky. The last hint of lavender is beginning to droop behind the silhouette of the city's skyline, a row of black, jagged teeth, the spires like needles. A rather painful bite.

But still, the sharp air hitting my body feels good, the adrenaline pumps through my veins and counteracts the racing heart of a panic attack. The anxiety subsides until there is only exhilaration.

Maybe that's it.

Maybe I turn now, in mid air, flip my body sideways in an incredible feat of gymnastic ability, shoot off another stream of web in a different direction, and aim myself for home instead. Maybe I swing all the way there, a hero returning home without harming… or stalking anyone.

If it feels so good to be Spider-Man, why chance it on anything? Why throw it away?

Following a bad guy home isn't throwing it away, my brain argues. Following a bad guy home is honoring the suit - not degrading it. Right?

Surveillance, I repeat in my head. It's just surveillance. I'm not going to hurt anyone.

"What are you thinking about?" Karen asks, her AI voice more confused by human emotion and the vitals she reads from me than anything else.

"We're on mission, Karen."

"What is the mission?"

It's just surveillance, I think again. Easy to brand. Easy to commit to. But I do not answer her.

...

…

SCHOOL

…

…

"This is weird," Ned gestures to me, waving up and down as if indicating my entire being is weird, but he's looking at my stomach.

I look down at my bare torso, self-consciously slipping the blue P.E. T-shirt over my head and tugging it down. "What is weird, exactly?" I ask.

"You didn't get abs like that doing crunches in this class with me on Tuesdays and Thursdays," Ned intones suspiciously. "Are you like… working out? Like working out working out?"

"No," I squeak. "I mean - sort of! Not really."

"Did you join a GYM?" Ned gasps, looking offended. He glances around the locker room to make sure that we're not overheard.

"Dude no," I protest. "It's… complicated! I'm doing the… uh… internship… for like… six hours every evening. Almost. It's very… physical?"

"It's really a rigorous workout routine fetching coffees at the Stark building every afternoon," Flash's voice whines in our direction. A locker door shuts and Flash's grin appears with a snide, self-important expression.

"I don't get coffee for anybody," I sigh. He really needs some new material, I've heard this one before.

Flash sticks a stockinged foot up on the bench in the middle of the aisle and grabs a sneaker. "Oh… right, I forgot. Not coffee. All the running up and down the stairs in their big fancy building carrying Tony Stark's dry cleaning. Sounds like fun."

"They have elevators, dude," Ned comes to my defense as best as he can, rolling his eyes.

"Well, thanks to someone ditching the most important decathlon event of the year, at least he gets to live the rest of his life without a traumatic fear of elevators," Flash snaps back, tying his show a little too tightly. He kicks the metal lockers a little too hard to wedge his toes into place, and then slams his next foot on the bench to repeat the gesture.

"So we're sorry that you suffer from a traumatic fear of elevators, Flash?" Ned replies, lips pursed as he turns back to me, trying to ignore whatever petty taunt he'll come up with next.

"I don't," Flash presses his hand to his chest as if to say Who, moi? and then drops his hand, his expression narrowing to one of focused cruelty. "Your girlfriend does. Oh wait - not your girlfriend. I forgot. You dumped her at the dance, didn't you?"

I ignore him and turn back to my own locker, struggling to stuff my backpack in.

"And she left you," Flash rattles on. "Everyone leaves you."

I shut the door very, very slowly. Ned's eyes widen. It's almost as if he knows that slamming it would have been a better sign of dealing with this exchange in a healthy way. Instead, calculating the precise speed and click at which I close a single door speaks to an entirely different mindset.

I turn and face Flash, my face entirely neutral.

Flash finishes trying his next shoe and turns his back to me, tapping his toes against the locker again. I approach him quickly, silently, the way Spider-Man might move in on a criminal.

I'm directly behind him, a centimeter away from his face when he turns back around, mouth open with a wide smile as he prepares to spit out another bad joke. When he realizes his nose is almost about to touch mine, he gasps in surprise and flails back, slamming into the locker behind him. "Dude what the hell!" he barks.

"Everyone leaves me?" I repeat, in a deadly tone. "Everyone, Flash?"

"Yeah, like, girlfriends," Flash falters, beginning to stutter. The same way he stuttered when Spider-Man stole his car. The same way he would stutter and beg to be my friend if he knew the sort of cool people I was friends with. Or who my true enemies were. The way he would stutter like an idiot if he'd been the one kidnapped and tortured. "You've never - seemed to - keep a… relationship," he tries to finish his thought, making it sound less than it was.

"You said everyone," I correct darkly. "Who were you talking about, Flash? My parents? My uncle? My friends?"

I was referring to Kim, now, as incorrect or as misleading it might be… but Flash didn't need to know I was referring to A Stranger Whose Daughter I Rescued. I don't want to overly complicate something for his small, small mind.

Ned's mouth is hanging open like a marionette with a broken jaw hinge.

"You think you're so special, Peter Parker," Flash retaliates, his fear dissolving into anger. "Oooh, my parents died! My uncle died, wah, wah, wah!" He pushes me away from him and scrambles to get out of my way. "Everyone dies eventually, Peter! Some of us aren't pitied by the richest man in America and given handouts for it, though! Oh, excuse me," he does sarcastic air quotes with both hands. "INTERNSHIPS!" He turns on heel and stomps out of the locker room.

Someone around the corner hisses "Ooooooh snap," with a giggle, and the sounds of two or three boys follow Flash out of the locker room and into the gym.

Then it's just Ned and I. I turn and look at him, my facial expression surprisingly… calm and passive.

"Dude," Ned erupts in a high pitched whisper. "What the ACTUAL heck? That was so effing awesome. You've never stood up to Flash before! Not as PETER!"

I shrug. "I don't know what I was thinking. I should probably go apologize."

Ned moves around the bench and launches himself in front of me, holding up his hands. "No, no, no!" he exclaims. "Definitely - do not - do that. If anything, he should apologize. If you follow him out there now it'll only get worse."

"We do have to follow him out there, Ned. For P.E."

"Oh," Ned's face falls. "Right. Class." He jogs in a shuffling manner towards the ends of the lockers and checks the entrance, making sure we're alone, before jogging back.

He looks a little winded. "So, Peter, friend - my best friend - you've got to tell me something."

My eyes widen slightly. I don't want to tell him about last night. I can't - I don't want to think about last night. I was able to talk about some of it with May, but that was all I could stomach. I kept thinking of Kim's face, her daughter's face… what will happen to her, and if she'll understand that her Mom may have left on purpose, but didn't love her any less? My conversation with her proved that much. I knew that. But could her daughter understand that at this age? Probably not. Would I keep thinking of these things next week? Next month? At graduation? Or would I forget?

"Hey, hey, focus, best friend talking," Ned waves at me. "You've got to level with me. Is my life in danger?"

"What?" I refocus on him, surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, god, I knew it," Ned slumps down onto the bench. "Your first reaction should have been NO… What should I do? Do I go into witness protection? Do Aunt May and I go together?"

"No, wait, stop," this time I take a turn waving my hands in front of his face to make him put the brakes on this entire thing. "You're not in danger. At all. Why do you ask?"

"Well you said… uh," Ned smiles apologetically. "Not to bring up a painful memory from… well… five minutes ago… and… all of them from your entire life… but you mentioned your parents, and your uncle, and then me."

"I did?"

"You said friends were dying. Am I that friend? With like… an evil Hydra's assassin's target on my back?" Ned points at his chest. "I'm I like the one that gets kidnapped at the end of the movie for a big showdown with your arch nemesis and rescuing me totally outs your secret identity? Cuz I don't think I'd be cool under torture..." his eyes get bigger as he realizes what just flew out of his mouth. "Uhhhh… I mean… not like you?" He hides his face suddenly. "Please reverse time so I can just erase all of that."

"No, no, it's not you," I exclaim quickly. "Ned, seriously dude, it's okay- You're not in danger. Not at all. No, no, no."

His eyes start to light up with recognition. "So it was more of a… metaphorical sort of statement? About friends dying?"

"I was trying to refer to the people that Spider-Man rescues as friends," I whisper.

Ned nods, a relieved grin taking over his face. "So I'm not in mortal danger?"

"No, Ned."

"Ookay… I get it. It makes sense. Sorry I flipped. But I totally get it. Save an old lady from falling? New friend. Saved someone from a mugger? Totally friends!" He pauses. "Oh, but you said… dying friends."

I rub the back of my neck awkwardly, looking away. "Yeah…"

"Do you… want to… talk about it?" Ned looks as uncomfortable as I feel.

I look back at him. "Not really..."

Ned looks shocked. That's not how we usually roll.

"I mean," I amend, "It's a short story. Spider-Man tried, Spider-Man failed. The end."

"Sure thing, bro. Whatever you want," Ned stands and adjusts his T-shirt. The final bell rings and we're officially late for P.E. "But I don't think Spider-Man failed."

I stand too. "But you don't even know what happened."

"But I know you," Ned smiles. "Peter Parker is the one putting on the suit every night. That's a win. You're out there trying to help people… that's a win. You're like the coolest person I know which makes me the second-coolest by default, that's a win. You're totally like - an Avenger - that's a win…"

"Okay, okay, I get it," I fight a smirk, brushing off the praise. If he knew, he might say - or even think - differently. There's a part of me that does not want to tarnish what he thinks of me.

"Look," Ned tries again, seriously this time. "Even if something really terrible happened and Spider-Man tried to rescue one of his 'friends' and that friend still died… it's the fact that he was even there in the first place that makes him a hero. Right? You could have been home. Like… drinking soda and watching another nerdy movie with me. But you weren't, you were out there and that counts for something, right?" Ned shrugs. "I hope every time I show up to class and manage to not fall asleep that it counts for something."

I hate to admit how much this isn't cheering me up, but he's trying so, so hard. And it counts for something, my brain argues. "Thanks Ned," I say, moved. "That… means a lot to me. Thanks."

"Aw, well..." Ned looks rather bashful. "You're welcome, Peter!"

We fall silent for a moment.

"So," Ned tries, shuffling his feet from side to side. "I wish there was something better to say, but I… I got nothing. I'm sorry he… or she… died. I'm really sorry. You know I'm here for you, bro, right?" He holds out a hand.

"Yeah?" I ask, peering at him beneath raised eyebrows. A pair of light footsteps come walking briskly into the locker room towards the sinks.

"Yeah, duh, always," Ned replies quickly. I take his hand. Instead of doing our special handshake, he tugs on my wrist and gives me an awkward hug, pounding my back with three good thuds, and then releases me before whomever-it-is can spy us having a moment. "I'm here for you if you need to talk about it. Anytime."

Before I can reply, Michelle in a P.E. uniform and carrying a very large book tucked under one arm, walks purposefully around the corner and comes to a halt in front of us.

"You're late for class," she says brusquely.

"You can't be in here, this is the boy's locker room," Ned exclaims, gesturing around the empty room. "We could have been naked!"

To her credit, Michelle doesn't even blink. "Coach is pissed. I said I'd come get you. Coming, or not?"

"He asked you to come get us?" I ask in disbelief.

"I volunteered," she admits, her hard exterior cracking for a brief millisecond. "But he may have said no."

"Well he's right!" Ned practically yells, using his arms to shoo her towards the door. "Come on! Let's go! Come on!" He looks back at me. "Come on!"

"Right!" I exclaim, following them out of the locker room. Michelle is the first one out, but she gives me a strange look as I brush by her.

"Uh… yes?" I pause and try to replicate her focused attention. For someone who always says exactly what she means and spares no extra verbage, she still remains a complete riddle to me.

She gives her chin a little jerk, nodding in the direction of the bleachers, where Flash is sitting and staring at us. He's glowering murderously, wringing his hands together as if he wants to strangle someone.

"Watch your back, Peter Parker," she says.

"Uh, yeah," I reply. "Thanks, MJ."

…

 **...**

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 **Bonus Features**

Feel free to skip to the end to bypass PERSONAL review replies, a 'coming soon' tag, and instagram/Youtube information, etc, and head straight on down to the end of the document. Your reviews are appreciated!

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* * *

All bow down to your beta, Queen of Crystallopia, and find her here on fan fiction, her stories "Paint it Black" and the sequel called "SILENT NIGHT" are THE BEST! You can find it in my favorites or on her profile.

I made a fan trailer for her first book PAINT IT BLACK and posted it on YouTube. It's unlisted to keep YouTube from deleting it. I'd love for you to see it! Since fan fiction hates it when we try to share links, you can try using the link below. Just take out the spaces and parenthesis and replace the slash with an actual slash.

(www) . (youtube) . com (slash) (watch?v=TqWlBlVA9Q4&lc=)

OR, you can direct message myself or Queen of Crystallopia on instagram (insta handles shared on respective profile pages) and we'll send a link!

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 **REVIEW REPLIES**

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Sea-urchin-the-ninja: I am so glad that my writing was something that brought a smile to your face at the end of a long day. That's exactly all I could ever hope to accomplish. Bless you 3

BJAfan: Thank you SO SO SO much for your long review! I am truly glad you are enjoying my story. Totally agree about Black Panther though, I needed a six hour version of that movie. Hopefully director's cut is longer! I've posted my first fic on Ao3, 2 chapters so far of a 4 chapter Merlin story. It's a bit of an older one but has all the feels. I tried to post a Spider-Man one but I think the website ate it. Or I totally did it wrong, which is super likely, since I am very new to this! lol

Queen of Crystallopia: THANK YOU MY FRIEND. LOVE YOU. (see you on the flip side) ;)

LeDbrite: Oh my goodness you are FAR too kind, thank you so much for wanting to give me a review even when you usually don't post them! Wow! \ It means a lot that you took the time, thank you thank you! I am truly grateful that you are enjoying and feeling inspired by my writing, and I am so happy for this crazy internet community where we can connect with others with similar experiences. I am sorry about your co-worker, I'm with you in solidarity!

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* * *

 **COMING SOON...**

Going back to Hell's Kitchen again, an invisible pull keeps drawing him back - again, and again - but to what end? Closure? Revenge?

* * *

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Instagram handles!

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For fanfiction and NERD STUFF: pippin_strange

For life, drawings, and more: myapapaya_adventures

For my epic Dungeons & Dragons group: thegildedlillyparty

For my weird obsessions: myas_haunted_things

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	36. Dr Parker and Mr Hyde

…

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Dear Reviewers,

Have you guys seen the new trailer yet? I've been FREAKING OUT and watching it OVER AND OVER. I would also like to make a vow to you: this story will be completed BEFORE Avengers: Infinity War comes out April 27. Ever since we first see Peter's spidey senses react in the first teaser trailer, I knew how I wanted to end this story, and I am writing that ending up for you all beautiful readers before you find yourselves in the theater ;)

If you've a mind to, please consider leaving me a review at the end ;)

Love,

Pip

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HELL'S KITCHEN

…

…

Surveillance, surveillance, surveillance, I hum to myself. That's all I'm doing. That's what I'm committing to.

Stalking.

No, surveillance!

No, really, this is stalking, it really is.

Out of curiosity, I pause on the corner of a skyscraper, three hundred feet in the air and one hand pressed against it's cool, metallic, reflective side to keep from plummeting downward. I use the other hand to press the empty, spider-shaped pocket on my chest.

Within seconds, the tiny black drone - looking almost happy to see me - comes whirring out of the spilling, golden sunset to tuck its legs beneath him and click back into place in the suit.

"Whatchya got for me, Droney?" I ask.

"The drone followed Officer Cooper home," Karen replies. A small map blips and appears in the view of my lenses, with a little red marker to indicate the route he was taking. "He lives in an apartment complex not far from here. Should I calculate the fastest route for you?"

"No!" I shriek suddenly, nearly loosening my grip too soon on the building I'm clinging to. I'm one monkey suit, three biplanes, and a blond short of a King Kong poster. And King Kong is a… tragic hero sort of character. I don't plan on being one, doing the exact thing that instinct is screaming at me not to do.

"I'm going home, it's late," I say quickly.

Committing.

Committing to surveillance.

"I don't need to go to his home - I don't. I just… I just appreciate knowing where he lives, is all. I can warn Aunt May to avoid the area. And Ned. That's it. That's all I need."

That's not all I want.

"Certainly, Peter," Karen responds nicely. "I'll calculate the fastest route home for you."

Home tonight, I realize, being honest with myself. But tomorrow I'll be back.

…

…

SCHOOL

…

…

WHACK.

There's an explosion in my forehead and a stinging sensation. I lift my head instantaneously from the desk where I had, apparently, hit the front of my face from falling asleep, my head slipping out of my palm which I had strategically placed under my chin earlier.

No one seemed to notice the thump, except for Michelle, sitting beside me. I stare at our teacher for a moment with glazed-over eyes, blinking to wake myself up, rubbing at the tender spot now in the center of my forehead.

I feel MJ's stare and turn slightly, smirking at her. "I guess I'm sorta tired," I whisper.

"Yeah, uh," she says, her mouth twitching, overcoming laughter with an apologetic frown. "Yeah that was uh - my bad, definitely. My bad. Sorry."

"What?" I whisper, getting confused.

"You started to drift off," MJ admits. "You were resting your chin in your hand and I saw your eyes shut. I, uh… uh..."

"Out with it, Jones," I say, cutting off her inability to get to the point. I've been really trying with her - lately. Trying to exude the confidence that Spider-Man feels, offer the same sort of friendship and humor that Ned often supplies to me. Its hard, and I'm too socially awkward to be any good at it, but I'm trying.

To my surprise, my interruption makes her laugh outright, but quickly makes her face a mask of indifference when Mr. Harrington turns around from the front of the room, glaring for the noisemaker. When he finds none, he goes back to the board, calculating the top five equations seen in most competitions. I had them already solved on my notepad in front of me within five minutes of the drills. He's starting on number three.

"I bumped your wrist," MJ confesses in a whisper. "I was going to wake you up and… I knocked your arm right from under your head and then you face-planted." She fights back a smile again. "I feel sort of bad and I apologize… but that was some of the funniest shit I've seen all year."

"Heh heh heh," I let out an awkward laugh, trying to keep it quiet. "Apology accepted."

"Why're you so tired all the time?" MJ asks suddenly. "Don't you ever sleep?"

"I sleep when it's bedtime," I respond unhelpfully.

"Yeah, okay, what, are you five?" MJ replies with a cutting stare. I feel like she's reading my mind. It's uncomfortable. "When is bedtime?"

"I don't know… midnight?"

"You go to bed at midnight EVERY night?" MJ hisses.

Flash turns around in his seat and shushes her. MJ immediately snatches her long sleeve back, previously covering her hand, to reveal her middle finger pointed in Flash's direction. Flash makes an L sign on his forehead in my direction, with a sigh of disgust as he turns back in his seat.

"Not every night," I whisper back. "I do the internship after school every day and then I have homework. A lot of homework."

To her credit, Michelle looks slightly sympathetic, instead of her typical 'grow a pair' sort of response and classic eye-roll. "It's cool you do the thing for Stark Industries," she says quietly. "It'll probably look good on a resume." She picks at the tip of her pencil, and then adds a pair of sunglasses to her caricature of Abraham Lincoln. "You haven't been yourself lately."

"Haven't been myself?" I repeat uncomfortably, giving a false snicker again. "What do you mean?"

"Nice try. The way you've been acting the last two weeks."

"How… what did I do differently the last two weeks?"

I didn't want to think about what happened two weeks ago. Or what might happen tonight.

"Oh, you know, just the twitchy jumpiness, big circles under your eyes, freaking out at Flash, zoning out…" MJ looks sharply at me. "Falling asleep in class."

I immediately break eye contact and look away. "It's been a rough few weeks, I guess. Didn't realize it was so obvious."

"You're not that good of an actor."

I give her a half smile. "You never know."

"I do," she goes back to her sketch, adding a Long Island Iced Tea to Abraham's outstretched hand. "You're terrible."

I don't answer, but I smile at her, and shrug, pretending to take notes.

I don't need to take notes, I remember. I solved the equations already. Dang.

"Why don't we take a five minute break," Mr. Harrington turns around and glares towards the back row. "Eat your snacks… or… whatever."

The room erupts in an immediate hum of chatter. Ned looks like he's about to make a beeline in my direction, but Abe steps in front of him and immediately begins asking copious amounts of questions. Looks like Ned will be otherwise occupied for five minutes.

"So what happened?" Michelle persists.

"Why do you think it was something specific?" I reply.

"Why do you answer questions with another question?" She glowers at me. "Don't be an ass to me. I'm being… nice."

"Didn't mean to be… mean? Just… clarifying."

"I don't think there's a mean bone in your body. It's conversations you suck at."

"That's… fair."

It's not. I can be mean. I can be cruel. I could test just how cruel I could be against a subject unworthy of redemption… maybe tonight…

"I had the flu," I found myself saying. The same excuse we used for my absence. The pivotal absence, and the main reason I had been acting so weird. If I invented too many excuses or lied further, she may just call me out on bad acting again and then ask if I was lying about having the flu, too. If she started asking… I didn't know how to avoid her piercing suspicion and stick with the story.

"I knew that."

"I almost died," I choked out, then clamped my mouth shut.

Her eyes widened. "You what?"

"It was… a really, really bad case of the flu," I lied again. "Like… really bad. I was in the hospital for two days."

"What the hell?" MJ breaks the tip of her pencil, sighs with frustration, and sticks it into the sharpener she has sitting next to her weird, putty-looking eraser. "Why didn't Ned tell me?"

I blanked. Shit. Tell one lie, then you have to tell a million more to cover it up… "My phone died," I began. MJ looked as if she was about to protest the excuse. "And Aunt May was so freaked out she forgot to tell Ned," I continue, feeling relieved when her gaze softens. "It wasn't until I was lucid enough to borrow her phone that I was able to let him know. I didn't have your number. I'm sorry."

"Ah," she says, reaching over and scratching her number onto my notepaper with her pencil. It still begs the question why Ned wouldn't tell her, and maybe it hurts, but she drops it. "There," she says. "Now that won't happen again. You know," she looks up at me with a critical, and potentially disbelieving, expression. "Just in case you end up dying in a hospital again without your friends."

Again with the friends thing. I'm fairly certain she means it.

I try not to blush, smiling at her. "Th-thanks. Yeah. I'll call you."

She raises her eyebrows.

"If… I'm, you know, dying."

"Or if you want to… talk about homework?" she supplies. "The far more logical and likely scenario?"

"Oh. Yeah. That. Definitely the uh, preferable scenario."

"Break time is over," Mr. Harrington calls out in an exhausted monotone.

"That was like, thirty seconds," Ned protests loudly, casting an annoyed look in my direction.

"We can… keep having a nice long break," Mr. Harrington says, as if reading a really depressing headline from a newspaper, "or I can accidentally schedule another decathlon drill next Saturday too. Your choice."

Ned thumps into his chair and rattles the desk. "Yeah, the break was nice," he exclaims with exaggerated cheerfulness.

I look up train departures on my phone from stations near Midtown High to Hell's Kitchen.

"Missed opportunity for another nap," MJ says to me in a clipped tone.

I give her an overly dramatic sigh, quickly turning off my phone.

"At least go to bed before midnight tonight, yeah?" she adds.

I nod, feeling myself growing cold towards the conversation, pretending to become distracted with notetaking again. I doodle a circle around her phone number with a few sweeps. "Yeah," I say quietly, as Mr. Harrington taps a pen loudly for attention. "Definitely before midnight."

Per my Droney's read outs, I should be able to track down Officer Casey Cooper when he gets off work no later than… eight thirty p.m.

MJ starts sketching again. In addition to the sunglasses and alcoholic beverage, she labels the bust of Abraham Lincoln with a scroll that says "USA". Then, in a dialogue bubble, she writes

Ah, freedom. Now I can take a 99 year vacation.

I did the math in my head - the Civil War ended in 1865, and 99 years later was 1964. For a moment, I forget Casey Cooper, and I stare at her, then her drawing, and then back again.  
"What?" Michelle hisses, looking annoyed.

"Have I ever told you that you're a really… really good artist?" I whisper.

She starts to roll her eyes again.

"No, no, I mean it," I say quickly. "You're the most amazing artist I think I've ever seen."

"It doesn't even look like him," Michelle shrugs, showing me the photo on her phone that she was using as a reference.

"I know people say that all the time just because they can't do it themselves," I say. "But I'm serious. You're… really good."

She looks at me, realizing that I'm being completely sincere. She starts to smile and say thank… and then pauses and looks back at the drawing. "I am pretty good at noses," she says instead, brushing it off.

"You're amazing," I say.

She glances at me, waiting for me to finish with "at drawing noses".

But the bravery of Spider-Man's quippy - and at times, flirty - verbal tendencies take over. I bite my lip to keep myself from back-peddling when my confidence fizzles out.

"Really… really amazing," I say again. Just so she knows I mean it.

I let it sit.

She tries to scoff and laugh it off, as quietly as possible, and she seems like she's… blushing? Blushing without the color. She's not physically blushing - but - she's acting like she's blushing. She tucks her ear slightly into her shoulder, hiding a smile - choosing to end her scoff with a polite, short, "Uh… thanks, Peter," and returns right to drawing.

I stutter and stumble my way through conversations all the time - this one would be different. I needed it to be different.

Just in case something happens today.

…

...

HELL'S KITCHEN

…

…

Office Casey Cooper is parked on the street.

It's a civilian car, not a marked patrol car. He's loading a box into the trunk labeled Donate. The irony he was giving away old possessions to those in need… I don't - can't - understand it.

I wonder if I am literally the only one who knows he's a monster?

Last night, Droney had followed Cooper home. I knew where he lived now. I'd be doing the right thing - explaining subtly to Ned, maybe even Michelle, that they needed to avoid the area if they could. May would know the full story. I promised I'd be honest, so I would tell her not to ever go close to his address. But I also wasn't going to be telling her that I was going back to Hell's kitchen - again.

Almost every night this week. And for what?

Nothing.

I only had a little bit of time after school, but tomorrow - maybe after the Decathlon drill that Mr. Harrington scheduled - maybe a LONGER surveillance would be in order. You know, follow the monster around all day. Track him. Feel him out. See where he goes.

See if he ends up somewhere alone.

Maybe I'd… talk to him.

I crawl over the side of the building, lenses narrowing in on Cooper. He's running errands right now. He's stopped at a post office, picked up the box labeled donate at the station, returned the Redbox movie.

"Your breathing is shallow," Karen says.

"I'm anxious," I hiss back. "So let up, already!" I pull back into the alcove on the side of the building and try to take a deep, fulfilling breath. When it seems like I have satisfactory amount of air, I look back into the street.

He's gone.

I feel my heart drop in my chest. His car is still there. Where did he go? What if he pulled one of those guns from Toomes from his trunk - and saw me - maybe heard me -

I jerk back into the wall and press myself into the shadow. My breath comes in short, quick gasps again.

"Hey!" I hear his voice call - across the street - just below me. "What are you doing?"

My insides shudder with terror at the sound of it.

"HEY SPIDER-MAN, WAKE UP! I HAVE MORE QUESTIONS FOR YOU!"

The convoluted flashbacks of him shouting at me clatter loudly enough in my head for me to think he's spotted me and he's calling me out. And I'm cornered.

"Hey - yeah, I'm just buying a paper right now, why?" I hear the actual clatter of a paper machine on the sidewalk below me. The slip of small change through the slot and the turn of the knob. He retrieves a paper and steps back into my line of sight, tucking a cell between his ear and shoulder as he relocks the newspaper stand. "What do you mean you have more work? What sort of work? The last one was bad enough even without your boss's damn incentive."

I gulp air with relief.

"A money drop?" Officer Casey Cooper repeats, lowering his voice to a whisper. There's no one on the street but me and him. It's late evening and all the heavy foot traffic is half a block away. "Doable. Way more doable. Let's discuss the details later when I'm not in the middle of the street."

A pause.

"Well, you know, I don't really like you either, so I guess we're even then. Goodbye."

He hangs up the phone with finality, just as the line in my suit starts to blip.

"Incoming call from Tony Stark," Karen says cheerfully.

I can't answer. Cooper is putting his phone away and walking back to the driver's side door.

"Answering call," Karen continues.

Still can't answer out loud - he would hear me - he's unlocking the driver's side door -

"Hello, Mr. Parker," Mr. Stark's facetime call appears in my lenses. I know he can't see my face right now, but his eyes narrow when I don't immediately respond.

Cooper is dropping his keys, fumbling loudly.

"Helloooooo?" Mr. Stark trails on.

Cooper is cursing as he drops the keys a second time… what is wrong with this guy? I thought cops were beyond such normal human trivialities such as clumsiness.

"I can hear you breathing," Mr. Stark says, rather mockingly.

Cooper slides into the driver's seat and shuts the door. I hold my breath unwittingly, waiting for the engine to start.

Mr. Stark's blink in surprise. "Uh - okay - now - no breathing. Peter?"

I say nothing.

"Karen, send me the stats, please and thank you."

The engine roars to life, and he begins to reverse out of his place by the sidewalk.

I let out a loud breath and gasp loudly, "It's kinda hard to answer when I'm in the middle of a stake out and the perp is standing right below me!" I exclaim.

"Oh there's a perp now, is there?" Mr. Stark looks amused, and relieved.

"Yes, yes, there's a perp!" I say frustratingly, watching his car back out of the side street, returning to regular traffic around the corner. In a moment, he's gone. "A criminal, a bad guy, whatever. If I'd said anything I would've blown my cover."

"This stake-out you're on, I don't suppose this is authorized by any law enforcement?" Mr. Stark asks. He's making fun of me.

"No, no, it's not, thank you," I reply joltingly, crawling out of the alcove for the boarded up window, and pull myself hand-over-hand to get to the rooftop. "Just an ordinary thing. Like… a drug deal. Stopping a drug deal in progress, probably. No big deal. Just a normal, neighborhood…"

"And why is that neighborhood Hell's Kitchen?" Mr. Stark asks. "Are you intentionally the kind of kid who lays your hand on a stove to test if it's hot?"

"Uh - what? Huh? Mr. Stark, you're breaking up," I say quickly, leaping onto the roof. "You - might - I - it's - uh - talk - later!"

"I'm not breaking up," Karen says with some confusion.

"Traitor," I sigh.

"Nice try, kid," Mr. Stark purses his lips with some frustration, choosing his next words carefully. "I can't keep forcing you out of Hell's Kitchen every time you go there."

"So don't?" I try.

"You just need to figure out what the hell - no pun intended - you plan on doing if something goes wrong, and you're just the boy with a Wolf problem."

"Uh…" I try to remember the fairy tale and snicker. "Peter's angry grandpa wouldn't let him in the woods to kill the wolf but when he finally does, he saves the village."

Mr. Stark opens his mouth to reply, then shuts its again. "The boy who cried wolf, not Peter and the Wolf. Wrong story. Let's say you've been to Hell's Kitchen - oh, maybe twice. Three times. How do I know if the fourth or fifth is the time you need help?"

"Suit upgrades?" I offer meekly.

"You know what I mean," Mr. Stark says darkly. "This needs to not be a habit. Understand? This is not your jurisdiction. As long as a certain officer of the law is free - YOUR choice, NOT mine - you're to stay away from there. Again, your choice, not mine. Your choice comes with conditions. These are mine."

"Okay, okay!" I say rather defensively. Then I fight off a grin. "So… you weren't referring to the story about the angry grandpa not letting Peter into the woods to fight monsters?"

"This joke is not appreciated, firstly, I am not that old. Secondly, I'm not that angry, that's Banner's domain. Thirdly…"

I back peddle. "Sorry, Mr. Stark. Just trying to be funny."

"I need one more whiskey for age-jokes to be funny." But he IS laughing, regardless. "Get out of there. Go home. It's late. Please. Just - do me a solid, and figure things out. I'm not going to bust you every single time you're in Hell's Kitchen. But I need you to make some choices here and I'm going to give you the space to do it. Capiche?"

"Yeah. Capiche. And… thanks."

"What for?"

"For… looking out for me?"

"Huh. Well, yes. You're welcome." He clears his throat and blows out a puff of awkward air from his lips, like he doesn't know what to say next. "As for the other matter…"

I wait.

"Wednesday night."

"Oh," I reply in a small voice. "That was…"

"Rough, I know. It happens. It's happened to all of us. It's best not to dwell on it."

"But…"

"No buts, take it from someone who knows. If you stack the preventable deaths against yourself, they will always outweigh you, and always weigh you down. You can't measure your worth - or usefulness in this daily neighborhood stuff - by the failures. It doesn't work that way. I've been doing this since 2008, kid. You have to trust me on that."

I gulp and lean against an A/C exhaust. "Okay. Thanks."

"You'll learn," Mr. Stark says, looking away from his phone for a second. He looks sort of sad. "We all do. We all lose people. I have told only two or three people about this, but the first person I lost - within my first three minutes of being Iron-Man - I lost the man that saved my life. He was in captivity with me and," his voice gives out for a second and he waves his other hand. "You don't want to hear about that, you've had enough of that yourself, just on a shorter tenure," he clears his throat. "It defined what I did from that point on. But I didn't decide then that I didn't deserve to escape or change the way things in my life were going. If I had, I wouldn't be here. I would have given up."

I nod, and remember he can't see me nodding. "Whoa," is all I manage.

"Just take it one day at a time for now, Mr. Parker. We'll figure it out. K?"

"Uh huh - yeah. Okay."

"All right. I'm hanging up now. Godspeed."

"Yeah, you too. I mean. Thanks… and bye."

"Yup."

And he ends the call. I sigh, and I tap my chest for Droney to return.

With a buzz, Droney returned in about thirty seconds, tucking itself in with a click at my chest and a readout of further movement pops up.

Tonight was a fluke. Sorry, Mr. Stark. I'm still coming back tomorrow. But this time, Droney isn't doing most of the work.

Tomorrow I'm following him home.

…

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 **Bonus Features**

Feel free to skip to the end to bypass PERSONAL review replies, a 'coming soon' tag, and instagram/Youtube information, etc, and head straight on down to the end of the document. Your reviews are appreciated!

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* * *

 **Your Beta: Queen of Crystallopia**

As usual, she is better than best - she's CRAZY AMAZING. Send her your thanks for being my Jiminy Cricket when I write, and for keeping me inspired by always writing such amazing stories herself. Be sure to check out her books, PAINT IT BLACK and the sequel, SILENT NIGHT, for the most action-packed, character-accurate stories on this site!

I made a fan trailer for her first book PAINT IT BLACK and posted it on YouTube. It's unlisted to keep YouTube from deleting it. I'd love for you to see it! Since fan fiction hates it when we try to share links, you can try using the link below. Just take out the spaces and parenthesis and replace the slash with an actual slash.

(www) . (youtube) . com (slash) (watch?v=TqWlBlVA9Q4&lc=)

OR, you can direct message myself or Queen of Crystallopia on instagram (insta handles shared on respective profile pages) and we'll send a link!

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* * *

 **We're on Ao3 now!**

Your beta and I are both on "Archive of Our Own" now, you can find her under Crystallopianqueen and me under Pippin_Strange

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 **REVIEW REPLIES**

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Shoyzz: Thank you so much for your sweet review! Your art on instagram has been giving me life. You're amazing. I might have a one-shot coming up featuring more Peter and Tony in a sort of AU internship interview scenario. We'll see ;) I'm committed to finishing this one REALLY soon! Only two more chapters to go I think...

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 **COMING SOON...**

Might as well of sold your soul to the devil, Peter, because you seem to live in Hell's Kitchen now... o_O

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Instagram handles!

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For fanfiction and NERD STUFF: pippin_strange

For life, drawings, and more: myapapaya_adventures

For my epic Dungeons & Dragons group: thegildedlillyparty

For my weird obsessions: myas_haunted_things

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	37. Up To No Good

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Dear Reviewers,

Thank you all for continuing to read and enjoy my story. This is the second to last chapter (the next will be the last, plus an epilogue that hopefully ties into Infinity War). I will also be keeping you up to speed on the chronological one I've been working on. To be perfectly honest, I'm rewriting several sections and making it even more epic, so if you've a mind to read this one again, I definitely recommend following me on Ao3 and here (I will be posting on both).

Thank you for sticking around! This chapter is EXTRA long, my love letter to you all :D

Hugs,

Pip

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…

Special Dedication to Joana, AKA Shoyzz on Instagram and fanfiction, whose AMAZING and ADORABLE artwork on Instagram was a direct inspiration for a scene in this story! I'll specify which scene at the end so I don't spoil it and link you to her artwork!

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HELL'S KITCHEN

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"Hell's Kitchen," I narrate out loud, trying to make my high, albeit raspy voice, into a lower pitch. "You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy."

Trying to do the famous movie trailer man voice, at best, makes me sound like I have laryngitis.

"The sun sets on the darkest burough of New York!" I continue, catching the gravitational pull at the end of my web strand, using the arc to swing me up again out of it, and landing atop a rooftop near the precinct again. I send Droney off for his usual reconnaissance, and I swear the little bug nearly leaves my suit before I command it to out of habit. I feel like he's… like a pet. A tiny robot pet.

"Little do they know," I continue darkly, watching the drone buzz out of sight. "...that JUSTICE returns to the city ONCE AGAIN!"

"Why are you talking like that?" Karen asks.

"Ah," I clear my throat, planting my hands again over the edge, beginning the downward-facing crawl, head pointed towards the street below and legs pushing away at the wall behind me. "Cuz it's fun."

"But who are you talking to? There is no one close enough to listen."

"Mostly to myself, I guess. And you. And if anyone else watches the baby monitor program."

"I don't think anyone has accessed the program since your abduction," Karen replies innocently.

The word abduction sends a jolt through me, but I push it down and keep moving. "If they ever do, at least the videos will be way more interesting, won't they?"

"At least much funnier," Karen replies, kindly, if it's even possible for an AI. "I do enjoy your impressions."

"Well, thanks, I think you're the only one."

"Your friend Ned enjoys them very much, too."

"And how do you know that?"

"Well, if I'm online when you spend time together, I have noticed that you both seem to laugh frequently at them."

"Huh," I say out loud, reaching down to the ninth or tenth floor approximately, and pressing myself against the cold steel and glass. Here is where I wait. "I feel like I've been such a downer lately. I'm not that much fun to be around lately… but I miss him."

"Ned's browsing facebook right now, he has not gone to sleep yet. Would you like me to place a call? Perhaps you should spend time time together."

"Not… not now," I say, hesitantly. There's a part of my brain screaming YES, go see Ned! Go play video games and do anything else!

"Maybe… maybe next weekend."

"Very well."

Droney comes whirring back, clicking its legs into place. The screen in my lenses light up with a transparent, three dimensional roadmap, showing a moving red blip two blocks away, and growing closer by the second. The non-marked sedan - the one that Casey Cooper drives outside of work - is approaching our location.

"The vehicle will be beneath us in approximately twenty-two seconds."

I maneuver myself into a sort of sitting position on my heels, feet planted firmly against the building, one hand keeping me balanced, the other with fingers ready and pressed against the web shooter.

His car turns the corner, slowly. I shrink back against my hiding place, the large steel frames of the windows giving me some protection from his potential view through his windshield.

I hold my breath inadvertently, waiting -

The car rumbles below, the old engine with the distinct whine of breaks as he stops at a crosswalk, letting a middle-aged woman and child walk across the street.

I stare down and let out my breath, haggardly, confusedly.

That should be Kim Matthews, I think angrily. Shit, that could have been me and Aunt May ten years ago. You could have just run me over then!

I shake my head and focus, waiting for him to accelerate once more and turn for his route home. I send the stream of web to the building across from me, swooping after him. Always one short step behind - a swing to this corner, a drop, a swing to the next. Always keeping just far enough so that he wouldn't catch me in his rear view mirror. Just high enough to be out of danger of being spotted, just close enough to…

I lose him.

A four way stop and no sign of him.

"Which way did he go?" I ask, in a slight panic. "Karen, can you pull up those readouts from Droney again?"

"His route home has not varied," Karen supplies. "I'm certain if you use the data from the drone's previous surveillances, you'll catch up to the target."

"Okay, light it up," I reply, gritting my teeth. I said I'd follow him home tonight. I meant it. Not giving up now.

In my lenses, a sort of animated filter appears, projecting Droney's surveillance data over the view of what is actually there, predicting his potential turns with red arrows. I follow the suggested markers to the left of the intersection, gaining speed by running along the top of the street lamps, leaping from one to the other until there's another building tall enough for climbing.

From there, I spot his car again, pulling out of the main downtown area. I pick up speed, catching up, and when I get a little too much slack on the web, I slam against a wall with a pained "Oomph!"

Like a bug on a windshield.

"Don't hurt yourself," Karen chides. "We won't lose him."

"Uh huh," I sort of growl back. Having an AI tell you not to hurt yourself after you, by your own strength, body slammed yourself into the side of a building, feels a little unnecessary.

There's small, low-income apartments crammed somewhere between the main hub of Hell's Kitchen and the waterfront. In the main drag where they boast of the "greatest restaurants"... calling it a district instead of a burrough… the atmosphere is completely different. Like they're becoming too good for the rest of New York. But outside of that, and it's the Hell's Kitchen that everyone knows it to be. It feels darker, dirtier, older. With the cheap rent, however, comes the drugs, the killings, the illegal trades using the waterfront and any private space they can rent as a base for doing bad deeds. This is where things went down that left both cops and criminals dead, and a vague newspaper article I remember reading about a Devil putting a stop to it. Trying to, anyway.

The boys in red, I think, remembering Cooper's taunt. I wonder if it's a myth. Who knows - maybe they're talking about me!

I lapse into a strange sort of southern accent. "I'm known in these parts as the Red Devil," I whisper, enjoying the possible new moniker.

"Why do they call you the Red Devil?" asks Karen.

'"Oh. Uh. No. They don't, I was just… messing around."

This is where Casey Cooper weaves his web and works - as he put it - for a much bigger guy than him. I wonder what sort of people he works for. Maybe all this surveillance will be good for something someday, and we'll find out.

…

…

SUNDAY

…

...

Aunt May walks into my bedroom without knocking.

"May!" I exclaim, holding a book in front of my face.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asks.

I lower the book. "Studying."

"Why did you hide your face?"

I grin unexpectedly. "Habit."

"I am not a hot dog vendor whose cash was just nabbed," she frowns up at me. "Get off the ceiling!"

"It's comfy," I protest. I'm sitting cross-legged on the ceiling, reading my book upside down.

"I made you breakfast."

I pause. "You did?" I sniff the air. I don't smell smoke.

"I didn't burn the waffles, if that's what you're wondering. Toasters have a timer for a reason. Come down."

"I - I will - in, maybe, five… minutes? I'm on a roll. I have one page left and then I'm done with this chapter. No. Wait. Three pages. I'm so close."

"Peter Benjamin Parker! Come DOWN stairs - I mean - DOWN. We have no stairs. Get down." Aunt May waves a butter knife in my direction. "If I had wanted to yell 'get down' all morning, I would have adopted a cat."

I unstick from the ceiling one limb at a time, my hair and T-shirt righting themselves as I lower myself down by a hand, then detach fully and thump onto the floor.

"Hm," Aunt May says with disapproval, reaching for me, and then stopping. "I won't try to fix that hair, not as long as you have three pages left."

I follow her dutifully into the kitchen. She points at the small table in the corner. "Sit."

"Is… everything okay?" I hesitate to ask, dropping into the seat. "You seem…"

"Tense? Worried?"

"Yeah."

"I just got a little call from Mr. Tony Stark."

"Really," I reply slowly, frowning confusedly. "What'd he say?"

She piles toasted waffles onto two plates, putting one in front of me and one for herself. "Something that came up during our little chat," she says, smacking a bottle of syrup to get the sludge from the bottom to the top. "Is the fact that you've been… going to Hell's Kitchen, precisely what we discussed you not doing as it is the district where he-who-shall-not-be-named works - and you're - you're going back to your old habits of not telling me anything - and apparently, you've been going so damn much that Tony Stark himself has decided he's going to stop by later for a chat."

She hands me the bottle of syrup, and I pause, both of our hands on the bottle. "He what?" I ask.

"Oh - that's the part of that speech that bothers you? That your mentor is stopping by? Where did I go wrong…" Aunt May lets the bottle go. "Maybe we should talk about the part where I set specific ground rules that you are not following?"

I let too much syrup slide onto the plate before realizing and returning it upright. "I'm really sorry I didn't - I forgot - I mean, I'm just sorry. Maybe I didn't forget. I don't know."

She raises her eyebrows.

"I was not trying to intentionally lie to you, I swear," I pleaded. "I think I was…"

"Being careless?"

"Exactly. I was. I have been."

She sighs, and eventually nods. "I expect you to talk to me. Like I said. That hasn't changed."

"Yeah, yeah."

Thoroughly shamed, l look down at my plate.

"Eat!" she commands quickly. "You are looking too skinny."

I fight a smile. "Your Italian is coming out."

"Yes, well," she shovels a generous mouthful in, and sighs happily. "Even if I fail to help you maintain your moral compass as a teenager, you will never be unloved or underfed - not under my roof."

"You haven't failed anything," I say quickly.

"I said EAT!"

I hastily obey and practically inhale two waffles completely over-drenched in syrup. When I'm finished, I try again. "You haven't failed me, I keep failing you. A lot. I'm sorry. I'll try to do better."

"I don't expect better. You know what I mean? Not after what you've been through - I don't just demand perfection. That's ridiculous. I just… want you to tell me what's going on. When you struggle. When you're… upset. Or going off grid doing god-knows-what in Hell's Kitchen. You've got to communicate with me." She takes a sip of black coffee and grimaces. "So let's talk about Monday."

I tilt my head. "Um… well. Uh. Going back to school after being kidnapped and tortured is… weird. Especially when everyone thinks you had the flu. But it's ok. Ned got me through it."

May smiles. "I'm sure… I'm sure that felt weird. Was it too soon? I was thinking it was too soon. Should have kept you home forever."

"No, Monday was fine, I guess, but," I pause. "Oh, you meant tomorrow. Not last week."

"I appreciate you jumping right on board the communication train, though."

"So what's happening tomorrow?" I ask apprehensively.

"Your Mr. Stark will be stopping by and he and I will be having a little chat."

"What time?"

"Probably after dinner, but…" she points her fork in my direction. "I expect you there. At least… show up. If you have something to do after school, fine. Do it. But if you are not back here - to at least face up and have a grown up chat - the Hulk's damage could not compare to what I would do to track you down."

"I believe you," I gulp.

"Good!" She sets her fork down quickly, as if suddenly realizing threatening me with a sharp instrument is sort of insensitive. "Now, let's talk about Hell's Kitchen, shall we?"

I try to force a smile. "Sure… what do you… uh… whaddya wana know?"

…

…

HELL'S KITCHEN

…

…

Casey Cooper exits his car after parking on the street. He goes into a five floor apartment building made of dark, mouldering brick and in severe need of upkeep. I wait and watch for his figure to appear and disappear through each tiny window in the stairwell on the corner of the building, until a light comes on through a window on the fourth floor. I see him walk haggardly inside, locking four different kinds of bolts on the door, and then toss his keys into a dish.

I cling to the crummy brick wall opposite his apartment window, on an identical set of apartments lining the back of his own. There is a small alleyway between them, a small dribble of water running through the center where the cement declines. There is a large dumpster at one end, and a tiny set of stairs beneath the fire escapes with garbage cans standing guard at each one. If I see him pick up a trash bag, I'll need to quickly crawl up and over and hide behind the lip of the roofline above me, because anyone taking out their garbage right now would be able to see me without any problem. I'm fairly exposed.

A woman comes out of one of the doors in the apartment, approaches Cooper, and gives him a warm embrace. He clings to her the way one clings to a loved one when you haven't seen them in days. She's wearing a ring - so is he. I haven't noticed it before. He definitely wasn't wearing one when I was in a close enough proximity to see it.

She gestures wildly when she steps back, looking as if she is asking urgent questions. He shakes his head, answering defensively.

I tilt my head, watching quietly. It feels wrong to be intruding on this - but he didn't exactly give me any semblance to privacy when I was trapped in that basement, crying my brains out, while he stood there with blood on his hands.

Their conversation grows more agitated. He begins to pace, she raises her voice. I can hear her voice now - but I can't distinguish the words. A fearful nausea begins to flit through my stomach, my pulse. What if their fight escalates? What if this is one of those domestic violence situations that Mr. Stark mentioned? If it is - if it turns into something violent - how would I intervene? Should I intervene? This isn't just interrupting any conversation. This could be saving a person who doesn't want to be saved - and revealing myself to someone who will probably try to kill me again. He almost succeeded once, even almost by accident. I didn't want him to have a second try. But there would be no question of whether or not it was right to try and save her from him - I knew what he was capable of! I have my doubts that she understands the monster lurking inside.

"Karen," I whisper quietly. "Reconnaissance mode, please."

Karen switches into a zoomed in perspective, lighting up their figures in bright blues and reds.

"Just the audio," I ask, the primary colors of the infrared aggravating an ache behind my eyes. "I don't need their heat signatures right now."

"Of course, Peter."

My lenses contract again, and their dialogue begins to crackle and echo in my ears.

"Just tell me what is going on," his wife is begging. It's uncomfortable how close her accent is to Aunt May, and the similarity between their pleas. "You won't talk to me - and I can't - I can't keep dealing with this alone. Not with what's going on. This is a partnership, not a solo ride."

"I know that - okay? I know that," Cooper is replying, his voice low, edged with anger. "I keep leaving you out - don't you think I know that? I do it to protect you - and then I regret it - and then the chance comes around again, and I fuck up again."

"It's eating you alive, like a virus," she responds, and then bites her lip.

"Not funny," he barks at her.

"It wasn't a joke - sweetheart - I'm sorry. It was a metaphor. A bad one." She sobers. "Have you taken your medication at all this week?"

"No," he shakes his head and looks away. "This may not come as a surprise - I forgot."

She puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you take it with dinner? It's in the oven."

He wrenches his arm away. "Yeah. Sure. If it makes you feel better."

Her gaze grows steely. "Yes, it does. And it will make you feel better, too, so maybe stop treating me like shit for it."

Suddenly, Cooper looks out the window.

I don't have time to move.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. I was so engrossed in their conversation that I did not sense his movement before it happened. That's the kind of mistake that got me caught the first time.

But he doesn't see me; his gaze slides back to his wife. "I'm sorry - things - at work have been rough. You know I've been making mistakes. They're starting to notice."

"Tell me about the mistakes," she says.

"No."

"I can't help you unless you talk to me."

"You can't help me, period."

"Stop pushing me away!"

"I'm not pushing you! I'm telling you the god-damn truth! They're only scheduling me for a few patrols a week now, Greg said there are rumors of moving me to evidence storage. I've been picking up on extra jobs to provide for you!"

"If I'm such a BURDEN, I could make it easier for you and just leave!"

"Don't, no, that's not what I meant," Cooper says, utterly distraught, his face gray. "I'm just saying - we're - we're in a rough patch! I get it! Mostly because of my screw ups - but I'm not giving up - are you?"

"No - but," she crosses her arms over her chest. "This is more than just a rough patch in our marriage due to a job change and an illness. Newsflash, that happens to everyone."

"Then what the hell are you so upset about?"

"I'm a little more concerned with the moments where you show up covered in blood and you don't remember where it came from. Or getting paid for extra jobs in cash. When you said EXTRA jobs the first time - I assumed a few extra shifts! Not getting paid under the table to come home dripping someone else's DNA all over the floor!"

"That was an anomaly - I TOLD you - they threatened you, our baby…"

"Why didn't you just fucking tell your boss?" she shouts. "You're a fucking police officer! Go by the book!"

"We write the fucking book! Half the force in still in someone's pocket, I can name three guys still feeding information to the Yacuza! Then there's the shit with vigilante's terrorizing people like us just because we're lower class! If it were EASY, we wouldn't be in this mess!"  
"Can't you at least explain to your own wife what the mess IS?"

"For your own safety, and Belle's safety, NO!"

"What about your safety?"

"I don't give a shit about my safety if I'm running on a timer!"

"Maybe if you took your medication once in awhile, we could pause the goddamn timer! Unless you value yourself - and us - so much less that you don't think we're worth the effort!"

Cooper turns purposefully away, running his hands raggedly through the slicked back, blonde hair, causing some of it to come loose. He looks like an animal once the coif is disheveled - and like a cornered beast - he unleashes. But not on her, no. He turns to the wall and punches the door frame - one, two, three times. BAM, BAM, BAM!

Bloodying his knuckles.

"Casey! Stop! Shit - stop - sweetheart!"

Cooper collapses on the floor, his chest heaving. His wife puts his arms around him and cradles him, but he shrugs her off too quickly, choosing instead to scrub at his eyes with his fists, as if fighting off a migraine.

My heart is pounding so quickly, I too fight the urge to press a hand to my temple, to try and reconcentrate some of the pressure.

"I don't want you to kill yourself just for sheer absence of preventable measures," his wife whispers. "Tell me what to do. I'll do anything."

"You already got a job. You already sold your car. I can't ask you to do anything more."

"I'm not talking about our debt - but if there was anything else I can do - to keep you from taking more of these jobs…"

"They're our only option right now. At least till I get the boot officially."

"They can't fire you for a disease you can't control. Look into family medical leave. Talk to HR."

"I did all that… they would have to pull me completely. It doesn't matter if it's discriminatory. You can't justify handing a gun to someone with a deteriorating brain." He looks up at her, eyes wide. He whispers - so quietly even I am straining to hear - "Sometimes," he says brokenly, "Sometimes I forget who you are."

She sits back on her heels. "It's that bad already?"

"Yes - but - I never tell you. Logic tells me that I didn't just walk into the wrong apartment and sit down to dinner with a woman I don't know. Logic is still getting me through those moments. I can tell myself that I must be married to the one with a matching wedding band."

She tries to touch his hand again, and he pulls away. She wrings her own, instead, touching the ring on her finger. "I'll never take it off."

"I changed my contacts in my phone," he continues, his chest shuddering. "Identifiers first, not names. Wife. Brother. Daughter. Daughter's School-teacher. Otherwise I get calls and I don't know who they are."

"That's a good idea," she says encouragingly. "Why don't you let me help you up? Dinner should be done soon…"

To my surprise, he does let her. When he stands, he begrudgingly accepts her embrace, but seems to push back sooner than she wants, keeping one firm grip around her wrist. Maybe too firm. "The world is different than it used to be," he says darkly. "We have to adapt - do you understand?"

She looks down at his hand, which he quickly releases. "Do you hurt people?" she asks. When he doesn't answer, she pushes. "Innocent people?"

He looks her dead in the eyes. Unwavering. "Yes."

A beat of uncomfortable silence.

"You're not giving up on these side jobs?" she finishes, taking a deep breath.

"No," he responds, "Not until I see more cash sitting in savings for you and Belle. When I'm a vegetable and in a home, you will both have something to keep you going. Do you understand?"

She turns away from him, walking into the half kitchen, disappearing from my eyeline. "Yes," she whispers. Silence falls.

I realize I'm drenched in sweat. A silent sort of panic that I did not realize was happening until my suit feels like it needs to be wrung out.

"I probably scared the kid," he admits quietly. "I'll go tell her everything is alright."

His wife does not respond, but I hear the clatter of an oven door.

I watch him move from one room to the other, disappearing behind brick walls. The room window beside the kitchen is dark, until a light switches on. It's a bedside lamp beside a small, pink bed. Cooper stands over the bed, withdrawing his hand from the lamp.

…

…

SUNDAY

…

…

"First of all," Aunt May questions, "Are you okay?"

I'm a little startled by the question. "Uh huh."

"Explain UH HUH," she imitates.

I nod. "No - I am. I'm okay."

"I'm going to ask you a difficult question, Peter. And I want you to answer it honestly."

"I promise."

"Are you trying to get revenge? On the man that hurt you? Is that why you've been going to Hell's Kitchen?"

I look down at my lap, tearing my paper napkin into small, shredded pieces. "Part of me did," I whisper, my voice shaking slightly. "I thought about things I know I'd never do - like - how satisfying it would be to not be caught off guard, catch him in an alleyway, and beat the shit out of him…"

Aunt May's breath hitches.

"You know me," I say firmly, looking up and maintaining eye contact. "You know I'd never do something like that - right?"

"I thought so," she responds quietly.

"I think - I think my biggest - mistake," I try to explain, "Was entertaining my own imagination and placing myself in his jurisdiction, time and time again, praying for an opportunity where defense could be offense. That's just as bad as revenge. Isn't it?"

"Spoiling for a fight and hoping he crawls out to oblige you," Aunt May offers.

"Yeah, pretty much," I push a few uneaten bites of waffle around my sodden plate. "But I promised you - and Mr. Stark - that I wouldn't do anything stupid. I'd knew I'd keep that promise as best I could. So I told myself I was just collecting data. You know - making sure you and Ned and MJ and everyone else knew where he would be, so you'd be safe. Stalking Hell's Kitchen and pretending it was for the greater good." I met her gaze again. "Sounds really stupid now that I say it out loud."

"It's not too late to sign the accords, press charges, and get him off the streets… the right way."

"I don't think I'm signing those accords until it's illegal to do so and I'm a criminal," I declare brashly.

"Oh, well, okay, then," Aunt May looks surprised. "That's a very… firm decision." She takes another sip of black coffee and clearly doesn't enjoy it. "How are you going to explain that to Mr. Stark tomorrow?"

I find myself smiling. "In a way that doesn't make him chase me all the way to Germany and recruit MJ and Ned to talk me down in the middle of an airport."

Her eyes narrow. "You don't think he'd do that, do you?"

"No."

"Okay then," Aunt May waves her hand. "Tell me about all this data you pretended to be collecting."

"I followed him around," I confess. "I learned his routine. Found his home. The car he drives when he's not patrolling. That sort of thing."

"It didn't make you feel better, did it?"

"No, it made me feel worse."

"You know, you could just let me at him," Aunt May looks a little too keen on holding her knife. "He hurt my boy - I'll never forget that. I could kill him."

I give her a look. "Not funny."

"Maybe I'm serious."

"I know you're not. You don't hurt people. You released a moth out of the window yesterday."

"You didn't see me beat the shit out of the yellow jacket that got in the window last week!"

"Aunt May, I'm being serious!"

"I know," she softens. "I know… I just… part of me gets it, you know? Maybe I'm a shitty guardian for talking like this - admitting this - but don't think I did not try to think of the ways I could take a baseball bat to his skull. Especially when I first walked into that hospital room and saw your face. I could've killed him like that," she snaps her fingers. "No one hurts my boy. I won't forget. I won't forgive."

I look away again, and I feel my chest constrict. My voice wavers. "I did," I say in a small voice.

She taps her ear. "You… you what? You did what?"

"I… forgave him."

She stares at me, open mouthed. "When? Today? Is that why you're - you know - smiling? And studying on the ceiling? And generally looking… better?"

"Maybe."

"I'm going to need you to back way the hell up. You just admitted to stalking him and hoping opportunity for revenge might come along. Do you know how scary that is for - for me, if I may be so selfish? For my fifteen year old child to tell me that? What changed?"

"Last night," I explain quietly, calmly, feeling the weight leave my chest again, like the way it did that night. "I just… gave it up. I forgave him. That's it."

Aunt May's lip quivers ever so slightly. "Why?"

I shrug. "It's exhausting to keep choosing the alternative. Every day." I raise my eyebrows in earnest, my eyes watering slightly. "I have to let it go - do you see?" I wipe at my eyes. "After what happened Wednesday - with that girl - and now, it just - it all makes sense, doesn't it? I can't hold on to these things. I can't." I look down, pushing away tears again. "With Mom and Dad - and Uncle Ben - there's things that keep happening, horrible things, and the more I try to grip the ones that I feel deserve - retribution, or aren't fair, the more I'll bottle it up inside, the darker I feel, the worse it gets… I can't live like that."

She stands from her chair, walks around the table, and kneels beside me, forcing my downward gaze to meet hers. "I don't know how you ended up being so wonderful and smart and kind," she says, her own eyes swimming. "But I've never been so proud of you." She wraps her arms around me and tugs me in close. "You showing forgiveness to the bastard who did this to you - it's - it's unfathomable. You inspire me. Maybe someday I won't want to kill him."

I nod into her shoulder, and she lets me pull back. "If it makes you feel any better," I say, "there's something - something going on with him. He's heading down a road that - well, it won't lead to anything good. He can't be saved." I let out an awkward chuckle. "Even by me!"

"That's the only thing I can say now," Aunt May replies. "As your guardian… I mean, eclipsed by your kindness and humility and mercy, of course - but - as your guardian, I will say this - not everyone can be saved, of course. You've learned that the hard way. Not everyone can be saved. Some don't want to be. But that doesn't mean we ever - EVER - stop trying."

She's right. Of course.

I smile at her. "Yeah, exactly."

She stands and goes back to her chair, grasping her coffee mug.

"I'm going back to Hell's Kitchen one more time," I say.

She drops the mug down a little too hard, black liquid sloshing over the sides. "Okay?" she asks, worriedly.

I pause. "Being honest upfront. Like I promised. I'm going back."

"When?"

"Monday."

"But Mr. Stark…"

"I know," I say urgently. "It will be a quick trip. I'll be back in time to meet you."

She wipes up the spilled coffee, absently. "Why go back?"

"I have one more thing to do - and - that will be it. Tie up some loose ends."

She raises her eyebrows at me. "You are being way too vague."

"It's because I don't have a concrete plan. All I know is that I'm going to check in on him one more time. That's it. I promise you."

"But why…" she begins.

"Last trip," I repeat, crossing my chest and holding up a hand. "I swear. I need to - I need to stop at the precinct. I'm going to call his bluff. And then I'm leaving - right away."

"Call his BLUFF? What the fuck does that even mean?"

"Don't be mad. Trust me. Please - please - please trust me. I know I haven't given you a single reason to, I get that, I've been misleading you for - well, months, I guess, about everything going on in my life. Please don't be upset. I'm telling you because I'm trying to do things differently. I'm going to Hell's Kitchen tomorrow. Just one more. And then this is all over."

"If you're not back in time," she relinquishes, "And it means something happened to you…"

"Nothing will happen to me."

"Something has already happened to you!"

"But it won't, not again. You don't have to worry." I smile at her. "I have to do this. It's important. Please."

She cocks her head at me. "Are you asking my permission?" She blinks. "You haven't done that… in forever."

"I guess I am."

"I'd be an idiot to say yes."

"You're not an idiot, but please say yes."

"This is all formalities, isn't it?" she wags her hand back and forth between us. "You were planning on going anyway and decided to ask, too. If I say yes, you'll feel better about it."

"If I asked," I correct, "I knew you'd feel better about it."

"Well played."

"I'm not playing. I'll be careful. I swear."

She collects our dishes from the table, with agonizingly slowness. She takes them to the sink, dumps them too soon with a harsh clatter, and begins to wash them. The sound of the sink running loudly fills the room. She shuts it off and grabs a towel, and pulls a clothespin from the shelf above the sink. Then she abruptly turns, leaning against the counter.

"Fine," she says. "You can go."

I stand up. "Thank you."

"I expect you to be able to text me if you're okay."

"I will."

"And if you're not back in time…"

"You and Mr. Stark will hunt me down, I know."

She considers me, calmly, and relievingly. "Okay. Now… I've… kept you long enough. Go back and finish that homework of yours."

I nod, a little breathlessly, and turn to leave.

"Oh, wait, take this," she says, and I turn just in time to sense a flying object, catching the clothespin deftly in my hands. "What's this for?" I ask.

"Pin your shirt to your pants so it doesn't fall in your face while you're reading upside down," she explains.

I grin at her. "I didn't think of that. Thanks."

"Mhm."

…

…

HELL'S KITCHEN

…

…

There's a little girl in a bed, hugging her knees. Maybe five years old. Belle.

He sits beside her on the princess blanket, patting the side of her head - his hand is so large is encompasses her entire face.

"What's wrong, Daddy?" she asks, blinking back tears.

"Remember what mom and I told you a few weeks ago?" he says, so gently I can't even believe he's the same man. "About Daddy being sick?"

She nods, gulping.

He taps the side of his head. "It was really hard today. Just meshing up all kinds of stuff in there. But it's okay now. Sometimes Daddy feels better after he yells a little bit - like - like singing. Sometimes Daddy is like that - gotta yell and act like a big dumb bear. A big ol' grizzly bear, doing dumb stuff and breaking stuff - but he always remembers who he is after. Mommy helps that. You help that." he brushes her hair, tenderly. "You and Mommy are what keep Daddy from turning into that big, angry, singing bear."

She's confused, her lips pucker. Her eyes still tearing up.

"Daddy will sometimes forget stuff, but he'll never, ever forget how much he loves you and Mommy. You guys help keep him all better!" He smiles and bends down to her level. "Remember those fairy tales we read you? Like how the princess kisses the frog, or Snow White and Rose Red feed the angry bear till he turns into a handsome prince?"

She nods again, comprehending.

"I have… bad spells. But you guys are my princesses - always will be. I'll never hurt you. Even if I yell a lot. Okay?" He kisses her soundly on the forehead and she scrambles back - for a moment it seems as if she's trying to get away - but she's not. She's fighting the princess blankets to get out of them, in order to launch herself into his arms. She's so tiny, she barely makes an impact, slamming against his chest and wrapping her pixie arms around his thick neck. "I love you, Daddy," she whispers.

"I love you, pumpkin," he responds, and this time, he is the one trying to hide his weeping.

I let the stick of my hands fade, and tumble from the side of the apartment, landing with a huff on the ground. I feel sick.

I choose - instead of swinging, and making it easy on myself - to walk away. I force myself to place one foot in front of the other.

With every step, something in my heart lurches. The last of my fear siphons away into the cold cement.

I don't know what's wrong with him. If I had to guess, I'd say early alzheimer's, or maybe a brain tumor. Something affecting memory, judgment, the capability to handle a firearm…

I shake my head, physically pushing away my conjecture. Knowing doesn't matter.

I don't deserve to know. And I must force myself to be okay with it. Because I can't live like I am entitled to know everything.

That makes me no better than the guy that tried to attack New York with an army of aliens, when the Avengers came to defend the world for the first time. I am not a little god in a universe that just misunderstands my power, that has no gratitude for my saving of it - or hope to save it.

This world owes me nothing.

But I owe myself the chance to let something go. Or it will take me over and I'll let myself grow dark right beside it.

I don't… sympathize with him. That's the weird thing about all of this. He doesn't have my sympathy at all - he probably deserves the hardships coming his way. Not just deserved them - earned them. If he gets in too deep with these side jobs as his wife put it, not limited to kidnapping Avengers-to-be and torturing them nearly to death, I can't imagine what else he's done to other people. Maybe I was the lucky one. Maybe others didn't live long enough to deal with it. For every harm he's committed, maybe some of it is measured back.

So, no. He doesn't have my sympathy. But what does he have - from me?

And just like that - I release my grudge. There's no room for it. Something else takes its place.

It happens so casually that I almost don't know it's there - but it is.

Forgiveness.

I am shaking with cold, and Droney returns. I hold out my hand, and the tiny robotic spider settles in my palm, chirping like a happy bird. I slam it back into my chest.

I, Peter Parker, have released Casey Cooper. I'm free of him.

Now I just need to find out a way for him to release me.

…

…

* * *

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 **Bonus Features**

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 **Your Beta: Queen of Crystallopia**

LADIES AND GENTS, THIS IS THE MOMENT YOU'VE WAITED FOR...

Sorry, couldn't help myself! Crystal deserves a fanfare whenever she's announced. You have her to thank for finding the spelling errors in this chapter, and as always, keeping me so inspired and encouraged by her own work that I don't know I'll ever have writers block ever again. Everyone send mental hugs to the beta because she's the besta! XD

I made a fan trailer for her first book PAINT IT BLACK and posted it on YouTube. It's unlisted to keep YouTube from deleting it. I'd love for you to see it! Since fan fiction hates it when we try to share links, you can try using the link below. Just take out the spaces and parenthesis and replace the slash with an actual slash.

(www) . (youtube) . com (slash) (watch?v=TqWlBlVA9Q4&lc=)

OR, you can direct message myself or Queen of Crystallopia on instagram (insta handles shared on respective profile pages) and we'll send a link!

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* * *

 **We're on Ao3 now!**

Your beta and I are both on "Archive of Our Own" now, you can find her under Crystallopianqueen and me under Pippin_Strange

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 **REVIEW REPLIES**

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Shoyzz: Thank you SO much for letting me use your drawing as an inspiration for my scene. It's such a delight to see your drawings on instagram, you're amazingly talented!

BJAfan: I cannot thank you enough for your encouraging reviews. They give me such life, you probably don't understand how much I grin like an idiot whenever I see a review from you. I hope you'll check out the chronological version when I begin to post, I hope to improve quite a bit on this one, though the format will make it a very different sort of development. I have been FREAKING out over the trailers as well and watching them over and over! Peter's scenes make me giddy!

EmilyF.6: Your wish is my command! :) And thank you!

cloudoffeathers: Oh HAI! I've missed you, haha! Welcome back :) I am glad you enjoyed the last chapter. Your worries are warranted, but hopefully cured at the end of this chapter :)

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* * *

 **COMING SOON...**

THE SUPER EPIC MARVEL CAMEO FROM A TELEVISION SERIES THAT I PROMISED SINCE THE VERY BEGINNING :)

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 **Inspired by Shoyzz art!**

The scene where Peter is studying on the ceiling with his book is directly lifted from an amazing drawing by Joana, aka shoyzz on Instagram. We can thank her creativity and adorable drawings for that inspiration. Check her out on Instagram!

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Instagram handles!

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For fanfiction and NERD STUFF: pippin_strange

For life, drawings, and more: myapapaya_adventures

For my epic Dungeons & Dragons group: thegildedlillyparty

For my weird obsessions: myas_haunted_things

Your AMAZING beta, authoress and incredible artist: mscrystalbeard

Fantastic Marvel/Peter Parker and Animation art: shoyzz

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	38. Peter and the Wolf

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Dear Reviewers,

No flashbacks for this chapter, it is entirely in the present! The next chapter after this one is the LAST CHAPTER... I will post it before Infinity War premieres next week!

My chronological version is actively being re-written and posted on Archive of Our Own, or "Ao3" where my username is Pippin_Strange. I'll be posting the chronological one here on this site too - only I keep forgetting, haha!

Love to all

Pip

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HELL'S KITCHEN

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The police station smells like mopped floors and body odor. I tug on my sweatshirt sleeves self-consciously, hyper aware that I can run into Casey Cooper at any moment.

It's not difficult to act as if I am supposed to be here. In fact, it's sort of crowded and busy anyway. I fall right into line behind groups of two or three heading back for the main hub where work is done - holding cells, detective's desks, locker rooms, interrogation rooms…

I shudder and walk a little too closely behind a man in a suit carrying a briefcase, nearly tripping on the back of his heel, my toe only just briefly scuffing the back of his shoe by a hair's breadth.

At one point he seems to notice, his head giving a slight twitch as he looks towards me. But no - I realize, he's not looking. I observe with surprise that he's blind, evidenced by the cane tap, tap, tapping the floor in front of him to guide him through any obstacles, and the dark glasses he wears even indoors.

So he's definitely not going to turn around and chew me out. I think he is checking for me, to make sure I don't trip on him again.

I feel bad, like I should say something, but I don't want to start a conversation with someone here when I am most definitely not wanting to get caught.

There's an smaller lobby ahead for going through the metal detectors. I know my web-shooters will probably set them off, so I shrug them off on the inside of my hoodie sleeves. I put my sweatshirt in along with my apartment key and cell phone. Hold out arms for the pat down - done - easy.

The guy in front of me has to put his metal cane in the box too. When we are both finished, he feels each bin sliding along the belt, feeling for his cane.

"Here you go," I say quickly, picking it up and handing it to him.

"Thank you," he replies, his voice sounding strange. Sort of tired, and wary. But surprised.

I pick up my stuff quickly and shrug the hoodie back on, struggling to get my wrists into the web shooters properly without looking at them or revealing them. Not as easy as I thought it would be.

If I didn't know any better, I'd think the blind man was staring at me. Only because he's standing there and doesn't move for a second, his body aimed in my direction.

Eventually he turns and walks through the next checkpoint - into the work areas. You don't go in these areas unless you're a detective, staff, a victim, or a criminal.

The man at the door starts to stop me, but I point at the back of the blind man already further inside. "I'm with him," I say urgently, feeling horrible for lying - even worse, taking advantage of someone who can't see to help me lie. "I need to show him to the, uh…"

I don't even get a chance to finish. The guard nods emphatically and lets me inside immediately, waving me through. My heart starts pounding. What happens when I try to leave without the blind guy?

To my left, there's dozens of work stations. Nothing like Mr. Stark's IT room at the Avengers facility. These are real wooden desks, old computers, case files upon case files, phones ringing and someone crying loudly on a bench by a window. It's chaotic and old fashioned. Closer to the work environment of the Daily Bugle, but far more intimidating. And I don't think anyone is smoking.

I'm scanning the room with narrowed vision, trying to figure out where Cooper might be hiding -

I run into the blind man in front of me, who stopped without me realizing it.

He's turned and looked at me, his smile… bemused, though annoyed, and calculating. It's weird to have it be all at once, but it is.

"I'm blind, not deaf, you know," he says statically.

He heard me...

"I - I…" I stutter. Shit shit shit.

"Look," he says. "I don't know what you're trying to do here, but whatever it is, it's a bad idea. For you and that technology you're hiding in your sleeves."

I feel like the floor is giving out from beneath me. How did he know…?

"You must have me confused with someone else," I say instead, my voice cracking.

From behind his dark glasses, I swear this blind guy is holding me hostage with a steeled gaze.

"As an attorney," he finally says, as if resigning to one side of an inner debate. "I am allowed to walk through those doors. I will go to the back room and meet with my client. When I come back through these doors, I expect you to be done."

There is absolutely no nonsense about this guy. My spider-sense starts blaring all over the place. Whatever is happening, I don't understand it. My brain is telling me I have nothing to fear from a man who can't see. My spider-sense is saying otherwise, sending bad signals all over the place, the hair on my neck standing up and a chill on my arms. I'm being threatened, somehow, and if I do not comply, this man is dangerous. Very dangerous. My spider-sense is telling me not to push his buttons.

"Okay," I say in a short voice. "I'll be gone in just a few minutes."

"A few minutes," he repeats, lifting his chin to a slight tilt as if he's listening to something. Maybe he's reading my mind. Oh my gosh - maybe he's an inhuman. Or enhanced. Or whatever the special-cool guys are called.

The only clarification that's kept me out of the accords so far. I'm no inhuman, I got my powers accidently by invention and a lab accident on a school trip. No alien changes or born-with-it stuff.

I can't tell what this guy is, either. Maybe he's enhanced from his own peculiar set of circumstances.

"Just a few minutes," I repeat. "Then I'm gone. I swear."

He lowers his chin. "Very well. I will alert the police to your whereabouts if you are still here when I come out."

I nod, and then I remember he can't see it. "Yes, I understand," I say, maybe too loudly.

He turns abruptly and uses his cane again, walking back to the cinder-block hallway colored a slight greenish color. He walks like he's blind, but…

I shake myself and walk into the wide space with all the desks.

And just like that - I spot the top of a head - dark blonde hair slicked back, a high forehead creased with concentration. He's sitting at a desk.

Working, normal-looking, writing on a piece of paper with an old fashioned pencil…

Before I can even recover from my close encounter with a random defense attorney threatening to call the cops on my sneaking in, I am finding myself staring at the man who tried to kill me.

I feel my heart nearly shatter in my chest, it's pounding so hard, my blood pumping with fear and adrenaline. My skin prickles with a cold sweat.

Office Casey Cooper, in the flesh, once again. Not in a car on a street below - not in a building across an alley.

In front of me.

The closest I've been to him since he had me shackled up, stabbing me and taunting me.

I did exactly like he said that I could not do - march into the precinct as Peter Parker. I remember his warning about half the force being in someone's pocket - maybe that's why no one even noticed my presence now. Why no one but an attorney tried to stop me. Maybe most of them are just as bad as he is, and won't address my presence anymore than a thief would grouse about stolen goods.

I don't know how, but it's time for Spider-Man to be put away for a moment, tucked in a drawer, away from sight. This is for me, Peter Parker.

Closure - like I told Aunt May.

I can hardly stand, my fear and panic is clamoring too hard in my head. I sit carefully on a bench on the wall beneath the window. Two benches away along the same wall at my left is where the woman is crying. Someone eventually walks over to her and hands her a tissue box. She begins to talk loudly in French. At my right, the hall heads for the back where the defense attorney is probably having a nice, calm chat with his client.

Casey Cooper breaks his pencil.

For a moment he stares at it, flummoxed. Then he looks in a cup of random items on his desk, looking for a replacement. It's full of pens, a letter opener, a fork, and -

A screwdriver.

The screwdriver.

I feel my breath hitch, my lungs constricting. He kept it. He kept the weapon he used on me. I've heard of serial killers keeping trophies… body parts, driver's licenses, purses. But I didn't necessarily think that other kinds of bad people kept trophies too. But I remembered the nurse saying the room had been swept for evidence… no screwdriver. He had kept it with him. I remembered him putting it in his pocket. Shit.

Cooper doesn't find a new pencil. He begins looking in his desk drawers, clattering the desk, the cup of pens rattling.

Suddenly I realize what I want. I want that feeling of power back. If he kept it as some sick reminder that he GOT me, I want to remind him that he didn't succeed - and won't. I'm still alive. I hold the power over him. Maybe I've forgiven him, sure. But he manipulated me - made me think that I was the one that would lose everything if I outed him, pressed charges, marched into the precinct as Peter Parker and tried to make a case for it.

But it's not true. None of it is.

I have everything I need. I'm the one that holds the power over him. I'm the one that could destroy his life if I wanted. I'm the one free - with the evidence - the Avengers - everything.

I want him to understand that.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. Cooper stands up with frustration, looking behind him at more desks, towards a back wall where dozens of filing cabinets stand tall, and on top of one in the far corner is an old, crank-handle pencil sharpener.

I almost - almost - suddenly grin when I remember MJ handing her pencil across the desk aisle at me, practically begging with her eyes to take the damn pencil and stop clicking my mechanical one with my anxiety. Cooper's affinity for not using another writing tool gives me my perfect opportunity.

He turns his back and walks toward the wall.

No one else is looking. The woman crying in French has her face buried in a tissue. The other desks are facing the other direction, backs point to the left and right, the hallway beside me briefly empty - the security guard waving people through and keeping his eyes entirely upfront -

There's only one empty desk between where I sit, the walking space of linoleum, and the desk where Cooper sits.

Enough space for this to be dangerous. But not enough for it to be the most noticeable thing.

It's better than walking up and taking it.

I press my middle fingers to my shooter, a silent WHZZZHT of web shooting across Cooper's desk, landing with a muffled tap on the handle of the screwdriver. It was idiotic - it was stupid - what if I missed? What if I was not as precise as I thought I was?

All that practice in my room picking up items off my own desk would have been for nothing if I failed this now.

I twitch my hand deftly back, the screwdriver yanked out of the cup, knocking it over, spilling the letter opener, fork, and pens across his paper. It hardly makes a sound, none of it falls to the floor. Just on his papers.

The screwdriver sings through the air back into my hand, the web re-siphoning into the cannister like a fishing line reeled in with a dangerous catch.

I stand abruptly, the screwdriver in my hand. I hold it loosely, my fingers ice-cold against the grip. This is the same thing he plunged into me. Is this rust, on the sharpened end, or is it blood? My blood?

Cooper returns to his desk.

Sees the upset cup of pens. Looks down, confused, shrugs, replaces them.

Then looks up at me.

My heart may have been slamming before, but now it feels completely still.

There is nothing in this moment. No reaction. Nothing exists except him, and me. The sounds around us fade to absolute nothing.

His eyes are blank with - confusion. A slight head tilt - he's trying to place me.

He doesn't… recognize me.

He doesn't know who I am, I can see it as clearly as he sees me. Even as his gaze drops down to his own screwdriver in my fist.

That's when it clicks.

No rage - none of the murderous, sadistic monster that cut me open for fun even when I wasn't awake enough to answer a question.

I see only the person who worried for a daughter named Belle.

His eyes are full of fear, when he realizes who I am. A single drop of the eyes that flicker to the screwdriver, to my face, then back to the screwdriver again.

He says nothing - does nothing. Only a slight purse of his lips indicate he is withholding any words at all; maybe even just an exclamation, a curse.

Office Casey Cooper drops like a dead weight into his chair. He looks prepared to meet his maker. I called his bluff, and he knows it. What I could do to him in this moment - it means both everything and nothing. None of what he said matters, and he knows it. This could be the end of his life as he knows it, and he realizes there is nothing he can do to stop it.

I put the screwdriver slowly - agonizingly - in my pocket. My gaze is hard, unyielding. Gone is the stuttering fear I had before - the panic. Only resolve and strength and pure adrenaline focus my energies into remaining in complete control.

Control over my life, and his.

I drop my chin with almost an indecipherable nod, as if to say, I'm keeping this. You have no right to it - to me - any longer.

No more.

The power at play here is obvious. I remain standing. He is sitting behind a desk, his face a mask of utter vulnerability. I am taller than him in this position. I hold my own almost-murder-weapon in my pocket. He knows he'll never see it again.

He drops his gaze, to the papers on his desk. Then he looks back up again, something flickering in his eyes - something like self preservation trying, and failing, to kick in. I need to leave before he remembers how to use it.

I turn to my right and begin to walk back to the hall with the metal detectors and the security guard. I feel the scrape of a desk chair behind me, hesitating for one last look over my shoulder.

Officer Cooper has stood, and he holds a binder in his hands. He walks around the edge of his desk - to the open area with the benches -

For a brief millisecond of panic I wonder if he's about to follow me -

But he goes to the crying woman.

Sits beside her, opening the binder.

"I need you to look at the mug shots," he says firmly. "Can you point out the man you saw?"

She nods, her crying calming down. She takes the binder carefully from him and begins to flip through the pages.

Officer Cooper looks at me one last time, and then turns away. He knows that he is utterly dismissed by me. He's returning the favor. Letting it go - recognizing my mercy. By the look on his face, by trying to work and go with the muscle memory of his duties for today, he's hoping I don't change my mind.

"This - this one," says the woman in broken English.

"Thank you," he replies.

I walk into the hall and nearly run into the blind attorney aiming for the entrance.

"I would apologize," he says dryly, "But you're the one that keeps running into me."

"No, I'm sorry," I say quickly. My spider-sense is not flaring with warning as it did before - whatever this man was thinking before when sizing me up - he's not thinking it any longer.

I wonder what changed.

"I'm leaving," I say, anyway. "I promised. I'm leaving now."

"Well," says the man, "If you plan to keep your cover, lead the way."

I blink. Using the phrase keep your cover sounds dangerous enough, but him willing to help me - for no reason at all - makes me suspicious. Hopefully he doesn't have one of his own weapons from Toomes stashed somewhere nearby.

I walk stiffly back towards the security guard, my knees knocking together. The adrenaline is wearing off. I feel the blood draining from my face. When we pass by a glass window between the hall and another room, I see my reflection, and my face is as gray as brain matter. I don't check to see if the attorney follows.

I head for the exit running parallel to the metal detector entrance, feeling urgency quaking through my chest and stomach. I'm going to be sick, I realize. Another panic attack is threatening to take hold. If I could just get rid of the nausea, I could just rid myself of the panic. Clean myself out.

When I'm finally outside, bright sunshine hits me with a square, yellow force of warmth, trying it's best to curb the cold sweat and chills racing through me as a prelude to vomit.

I walk stiffly down the steps, turn right, and at least get to the curb, where there's an open storm drain. I put my hands on my knees and lower my head, vomiting profusely. My throat groans with horrible sounds and my lunch from school splatters indecipherably against the grating and sliding down inside. Some people walking down the side walk on the opposite side look over with disgusted faces, hoot with laughter, and move on. There's no one else around, nothing but traffic squeezing by.

Except, my sense warns, the attorney standing on the steps. Watching you.

I vomit again, tears streaming down my face from the burn of the acid in my throat. But that was the last of it - thank god. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, straightening.

"Here," the defense attorney hands me a tissue from his pocket, tucking his cane under one arm to leave one hand free, the other holding his briefcase.

I accept it carefully, not really sure what to make of this good samaritan move, while he had come across so dangerously before.

"It's not used," he says, with a very slight smile. It changes the whole demeanour of his face when he smiles - he goes from a man about to snap to a genuinely warm person, albeit a bit lost. There's a sadness in the smile I can't place. "I keep a packet on hand for clients," he explains.

"Thanks," I say raspily, using it to blow my nose and wipe my mouth. I ball it up in my hand and I'm surprised to find him taking off his glasses.

I certainly had to have imagined the moments earlier where it felt like her was looking at me. He's definitely blind. His gaze remains entirely unfocused and gentle, unhurried and blank, gazing slightly past me and on the ground. He aims his face for me, no eye contact. I try to remember why I doubted his blindness before and can't really recall why. Maybe he's just really perceptive.

"Are you all right?" he asks carefully. There's something professional, but compassionate about his tone. Maybe in another life he would have made a good schoolteacher or a counselor instead of an attorney. I bet his clients feel relieved with him on their side.

"Yeah, I am now," I say. "I just - well, I…"

He waits.

"I faced the devil," I whisper. Maybe it's melodramatic of me, but it's the truth. My own personal devil.

He visibly flinches. "You what?" he asks. His voice low. Deadly.

Spider-sense flares up in a surge of ice and fire up and down my spine.

"Metaphorically," I say quickly. "But I'm done now. It's done."

Instantly, the danger passes. I'm confused by it - frightened, even. But I won't provoke it. Whatever IT is.

The man relaxes instantly. He holds up a hand. "You don't have to explain to me what you were doing in there - in fact, it's best that you don't. Plausible deniability, you know. "

"Okay," I swallow painfully and nod. "Um… thanks, though. It was nice of you to - you know. Help me in."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says curtly.

"Uh huh," I respond. Like he said, plausible deniability.

"But whatever it was that you took," he raises his eyebrows slightly. "Whatever you have hiding in your pocket. I hope it was worth it."

My flight, fight, or freeze kicks in. Can't run. Can't fight a blind guy. So I freeze.

"Was it worth it?" he repeats, sternly.

"Yes," I whisper. "Yes," I repeat again, more sure of myself. Firmly.

"Good," he drops his chin almost like a nod of approval and puts his glasses back on. "Don't let me catch you in this area again," he says. Still kind… but fierce.

The warning bell in my spider sense gives a slight vibration. There it is again - the danger. "Stay out of Hell's Kitchen," he says. "You're not from around here. You're young. Stick to your own neighborhood."

The way he says neighborhood instead of burrough is confusing. Almost as if - almost as if he knows about my hidden identity - my nickname. The friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. But how could he? He's a complete stranger.

"Okay," I reply, nodding. "I will. I promise."

"Good boy," the man unfolds his cane and turns away from me slightly, beginning to head the opposite direction.

The fear and panic from before slowly disappears, and I feel myself relaxing.

I did it.

I really did it.

I faced Cooper and lived to tell about it.

The attorney looks over his shoulder at me. Not looking, I guess. Listening. He too loses a tension in his shoulders that I did not realize was there.

He relaxes and resumes his walk.

I have a feeling we'll never cross paths again… but I wonder. Who the hell is he?

I suddenly remember to pull out my phone and text Aunt May.

On my way home. I'm safe and I'm fine.

It takes barely half a second for a response.

I love you.

I've responded to this phrase so often that my phone suggests it, I don't even have to type it out. But I change one word slightly.

I larb you!

I return my phone to my pocket, then turn and I walk the other way, aiming for the west. The cold breeze that smells slightly of food and trash wafts towards me.

Next stop: the river. One more thing to do before I go home and face Aunt May and Mr. Stark. I wonder what that meeting will be, exactly. A check in? A scolding?

One step at a time. River first.

Peeved mentors later.

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* * *

 **Big THANK YOU to Queen of Crystallopia**...my beta, my epic friend, my random-fandom-FIFFER! Where would I be without you? (hint: still stuck in chapter eight and giving up ages ago). Couldn't have done this without you, thank you for all of your encouragement. Love you! 3

* * *

 **We're on Ao3 now!**

Your beta and I are both on "Archive of Our Own" now, you can find her under Crystallopianqueen and me under Pippin_Strange

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 **REVIEW REPLIES**

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anyctophillian: I am sorry about your heart! I hope this chapter makes it feel better! And don't worry it's not over quite yet. The NEXT chapter will be the last one and hopefully have a strong enough conclusion to make it all worthwhile!

MewWinx96: lol, tardy to the party, I love it. Better to be tardy to the party than to have mayhem in the A.M.! XD But seriously thank you for reviewing, I hope you enjoy this chapter and the last.

reinedumal: I am beyond honored that you took the trouble to make an account just to leave me a review. I cannot even speak, you are so so so sweet to cheer me on. I AM GRATEFUL. (all the hugs)

queenofcrystallopia: THANK YOU FOR YOUR REVIEW, EVEN THOUGH YOU BASICALLY ALREADY REVIEW IT WHILE BETA-ING, YOU ARE SO KIND. I'M WITH YOU TO THE END OF THE LINE (insert all the crying emojis here because I just can't do it justice)

EmilyF.6: Thank you so so much, I am glad you enjoyed the glimpse into Cooper's life. I didn't want to go too crazy with exposition but I felt like a little more information about his life was necessary!

readingisapriority: I love your username so much! Also thank you SO much for your review, I really hope this chapter had enough Daredevil goodness without going too outside of what would work in the MCU canon. I love Matt Murdock so much, don't you? Can't wait to get caught up with his last season, I am SO behind, haha.

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* * *

 **COMING SOON...**

THE END. THE FINAL.

SOMETHING... INFINITE.

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Instagram handles!

...

For fanfiction and NERD STUFF: pippin_strange

For life, drawings, and more: myapapaya_adventures

For my epic Dungeons & Dragons group: thegildedlillyparty

For my weird obsessions: myas_haunted_things

Your AMAZING beta, authoress and incredible artist: mscrystalbeard

Fantastic Marvel/Peter Parker and Animation art: shoyzz

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	39. To Infinity And Beyond

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Note: final chapter of the story. (posting tonight, which is Tuesday the 24th for me). Posting epilogue tomorrow (Wednesday the 25th).

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MONDAY NIGHT

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I open the door to the apartment and look inside. I feel a sudden flashback to last year - the day Tony Stark marched himself into my life and compromised my secret identity and then I went to Germany and fought half the Avengers with the other half and was a total fanboy over Captain America.

Feels so long ago.

"There he is," Aunt May says, her voice pleasant, albeit a bit tight.

"Running a little late tonight, aren't we, Mr. Parker?" Mr. Stark asks as I pop out my earbuds and put my backpack down on the floor, shutting the door behind me.

"Hopefully not… too late?" I say carefully, giving them a sort of guilty grin.

"I told Mr. Stark you were coming home soon," Aunt May says lightly, "From Hell's Kitchen."

"Aha," I say, not surprised by this at all. "Well - uh…"

"Do you have something to tell us?" Mr. Stark asks. He has that Stark-ish jovial expression where he's probably had a nice, sunny day full of riches and deals and god-knows-what (I really don't know what rich people do at all) with a slight cloud of concern behind his dark brown eyes. Where he is prepared for the worst, but inevitably, hoping he does not hear the bad news he expects to ruin his perfectly good day.

I shrug. "Nope."

Aunt May opens her mouth, then shuts it again.

Mr. Stark looks at me over the back of the couch. The flashbacks are astounding. They are sitting in the exact same way that they were the day I met him. Only this time Aunt May is wearing her glasses and her post-work outfit, jeans and a T-shirt. We both look sort of frumpy compared to him - Stark is dressed immaculately in a suit. Per usual.

"May Parker here was just telling me that you went back to Hell's Kitchen to tie up some loose ends," Mr. Stark says, his eyes glinting behind his own glasses. "I was hoping that this meant you had something for me."

I blink. "Uh - no? What're you… what do you… um… no?" I am not sure what he was expecting. Did he know about the screwdriver? HOW would he have even known about that? Yeah, I took it back, and even if he had eyes in Hell's Kitchen keeping an eye on me AND the precinct - I didn't keep it. I'm not handing it over for evidence in Cooper's attempted murder trial. It's not happening.

Mr. Stark's eyes narrow at me. "Are you ready to press charges against a certain officer of the law?"

"No," I say so quickly, so firmly, that I surprise even myself. I keep my chin lowered, gaze even. Almost mirroring the position of power I took over Cooper. It's different with Stark, but… he still can't make me do anything I don't want to do.

Can he?

"But honey…" Aunt May begins.

"No," I repeat, interrupting. "We don't have to worry about it. He won't be bothering us anymore."

Mr. Stark blinks at me as if he's about to pop like a surprised balloon. "What, you think I'm just going to leave that statement alone….? You sound like Marlon Brando!"

"Who is Marlon Brando?" I ask.

"I forget how young he is," Mr. Stark laments painfully.

"This isn't funny," Aunt May stands up and crosses the room to me, hugging her arms to prevent the alternative of hugging more answers out of me. "What happened? You can tell us."

"Nothing happened," I say. "That's the point. I'm not lying. NOTHING happened, and it's just… he won't do anything. I know he won't."

"You didn't TALK to him, did you?" Aunt May asks.

"Did you - did you do something?" Mr. Stark asks, and I can hear real concern in his voice. "That day - in Hell's Kitchen… when we talked. You sounded…"

"No - no, and no," I repeat. "You're both thinking the worst - nothing happened, I didn't do anything. That's the point. We don't have to do anything. He's not - there's something going on, with him. He's terminal."

"Terminal," Mr. Stark repeats.

"I had a long talk with Aunt May yesterday," I explain further, addressing Mr. Stark directly. I have my doubts that he would understand what I meant about forgiving him, so I don't want to go into too much detail. "I've made a decision to be done with this - with all of this. Officer Cooper is suffering from a terminal illness. I don't know what it is. Maybe dementia or something - but - it's killing him. He's losing his job. I went to the precinct today one last time…"

Aunt May braces herself for the worst.

"He didn't recognize me," I say. "Not entirely, anyway. But I called his bluff and he knows it's over. We won't have to worry about him for much longer, anyway. His own brain is going to get him in the long run."

Mr. Stark is shocked. "I didn't know this…" he seems to be chiding himself on his own lack of knowledge here. It's not something 'his people' would have picked up, even if they were following May and I around for our own protection, or if he had people stationed in Hell's Kitchen watching Cooper. The symptoms really didn't show.

I only knew because I eavesdropped on an intimate conversation between him and his wife.

I take a deep breath. This is my final word.

"I want you - us - to leave it alone," I say, exhaling carefully.

"But - " Mr. Stark begins.

"Leave it alone," I say evenly.

I'm calm. Firm. I need him to take me seriously. He can pretend there is a huge gap between myself and him, constantly referring to him and the others as "the grown ups" and myself as "the kid". But I need him to recognize that it is truly my right to say no to this - to any of this.

The silence is heavy, impenetrable.

"I don't expect you to understand…" I say as gently as I can, trying not to be condescending. "But… I don't… I want to pretend this never happened."

"Peter, that's not… entirely healthy…" Aunt May tries.

"No, but it is what I need," I explain. "Please. If I'm ever going to step out of this shadow. I need it. I have to put it behind me." I swing my head back and forth, looking at each of them in turn. "You have to let me do that."

They look at each other, and seem to have a speedy, three-second conversation in a grown-ups only language with their eyes.

"We'll never talk about it again," I whisper, my voice breaking slightly. Don't lose it now, Spider-Man - you've held it together thus far.

"Please," I add.

"Well," Mr. Stark says. He pulls of his glasses and polishes them a bit. I recognize a tell for his own emotional state now - he thinks by fixing the glasses he can distract us from the tightness of his chin, his own eyes stinging ever so slightly. "Kid's making it pretty clear how this is going to go."

I don't respond.

"He's usually not this bossy," May responds. My god, she's trying to be funny. I larb her so much.

"Then," Mr. Stark rises from the couch, straightening his jacket. "Just consider this a friendly drop by visit then. Checking in on you and the fam. How's that geeky friend of yours?"

"Ned's good," I crack a smile. "He said he wanted to take up songwriting this morning."

"Only if he sings them with that hat of his," Aunt May says. "I'd go to that concert."

"Do me a favor," Mr. Stark says, "Don't invite me."

"I won't," I reply, a little too quickly.

"Well, I will leave you to it," Mr. Stark drums out a sort of short, fanfare beat on his legs and adjusts the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. "Nice to see you both, as always." He comes around the edge of the couch and shakes Aunt May's hand. She smiles rather warmly at him. "Tell Ms. Potts I say hello, and congratulations," she says.

"Oh - uh, uh - I saw the news, I'm sorry, I forgot, been sorta… busy," I stutter horribly. "Congratulations. That's - amazing. She's cool. Really cool."

"Thank you both," Mr. Stark's very Stark-y demeanour washes away for a moment to show a man just all too happy to marry his longtime love. "I'll tell her." He turns to me, and he claps a hand on my shoulder.

"You're a good man, Mr. Parker," he says. "Don't forget what I told you. Let Happy and myself know if you need anything - anything at all. Okay? Got it?"

"Got it," I reply, remembering his offer of getting me in touch with a counselor. I mean, hopefully I wouldn't need that, but you never know. My PTSD and his are a little different. Mine was part of the underground crime thing… dirty cops and information-seeking.

He was defending the world from aliens and got sucked into space and was nearly trapped in a wormhole forever. I can't help but feel that his is far, far worse. That's something that will never happen to me! I'm just down here. With the little guys. Still...

"You know that suit that you showed me at the facility?" I ask carefully.

"Yes?" Mr. Stark asks.

"One of these days - if I need it - I don't suppose it has like a cool Iron Man sort of homing beacon thing where I like, hit a button and it summons it out of the facility and blasts through the ceiling and answers my call?"

Mr. Stark releases my shoulder, throws back his head and howls with laughter.

"What!" I bleat. "I'm being serious!"

"I know," he says. "You turned it down, remember?"

"I'm curious!"

"Mmhmm," he taps the side of his head. "I think you'll be re-considering that offer."

"Not yet," I shrug. "But like - the suit. Maybe it doesn't like, answer a summoned call. But can it go in SPACE?"

Mr. Stark shakes his head, but he's not exactly saying no, just expressing his laughing disbelief at my sudden curiosity. "You don't wana go into space, trust me," he chuckles, slightly painfully.

"What if I do?"

"We're not going to let you go into space, pal. That's a big no."

"For once I agree with Tony Stark," May exclaims. "I don't know where all this is coming from, but that's a definite no."

"I was just curious about the special features on the suit," I throw my hands up in surrender. "That's all."

"Certainly," Mr. Stark winks at Aunt May and aims for the door.

"Does the suit I have NOW do any cool features you haven't told me about yet?" I call after him.

"Goodnight, Peter, May," Mr. Stark is chuckling still, throwing up a hand in farewell. He sees himself out and shuts the door behind him.

Aunt May throws her arms around me and gives me a huge, grossly wet kiss on the cheek. "I love love love you," she exclaims.

"Ugh," I cackle, pretending to lean away from her embrace. "What's this for?"

"You just small-talked the smartest, richest man in the world out of our apartment!" Aunt May grins. "I am aghast."

I shrug with a bashful laugh. "Anything for you, Aunt May."

She hugs me, tightly and fiercely. "No… anything for you, my sweet boy. Forever and always."

I grin at her and quip back, ending a turn of phrase we've said to each other since the first day I came to live here.

"Forever and infinity," I reply.

...

…

THE HUDSON

…

…

It's over.

It's really truly over.

I was free, physically, when I walked myself out of the basement garage. Now I'm free for the rest of it - mentally, spiritually. Maybe emotionally will come later.

Casey Cooper knows it. He has to know that by taking the screwdriver back, I was showing him mercy.

He knows I had the power to destroy him

and chose… the alternative.

I'll always choose the alternative - or try to, anyway. I'll always need to. For people that can no longer choose it themselves. Kim, Cooper, even sometimes the Avengers, or Aunt May.

I lean on the iron fence between me and the Hudson, resting my chin on my arms. The water doesn't smell all that pleasant today, and it's chilly. But the sunlight feels good, and the current laps loudly on the cement breakers below. A boat races by.

This feels nice. Calm.

I finally feel normal. So normal in fact that I nearly forget about the screwdriver burning in my pocket. But I take it out now, mulling it over, examining it without really seeing it. It's just a piece of nothing. And it's out of HIS hands…

So it should be out of mine, I guess.

I draw my arm back and throw it out into the Hudson as far as I can. The sheer distance that it arcs, turning over and over with energy and sunlight glinting off the metal end, speaks to the super strength I have hiding inside me - showing exactly why I could never join a football team. I would be outed before one could spell Midtown.

Only my superior hearing can pick up the tiny splooshtt it makes when it breaks the surface of the Hudson river, bubbling once as it dips down, down, down - sinking into the dark, murky green beneath.

That's it. It's gone forever. There's a part of me that hopes that I throw in all the PTSD with it, but I know that's not necessarily likely. It will take a little time, but I'll get better. I know I will.

I'd rather just pretend that day never happened… but I know that's not realistic at all. I can't guarantee I won't run into one of the players again. What if I swing by Brian during a crisis? Maybe I can't say thank you again. But it seems cruel to pass him by and give him nothing. Maybe a nod… maybe a thanks. I hope someday if we make eye contact in any way, I hope the gesture is understood. Without ever having to talk about it again… or think about it. I hope they can give me that.

I don't know about Casey Cooper, but that hardly matters. He's made his bed. I'm done with him and I'll never see him again - I feel it with a certainty in my gut. He can't be saved. Taking his weapon from him was… the least I could do. Because I could not do nothing.

I can never do nothing.

Just because someone can't be saved, I think Aunt May had said, Doesn't mean that we ever, ever stop trying.

I hope the next time an opportunity comes to make a difficult choice, I can do it. Hopefully I don't screw it up. But I can't think like that now.

I can only wait for the next thing. Hope that when it gets here, I'm ready for it. And I'll show the rest I haven't been damaged by what happened, and they won't handle me like I'm liable to break. I'll be ready to become an official member of the Avengers then, and I'll make them proud.

I tuck my hands in my pockets, smiling to myself. The sunlight glints off the water as I turn away, whistling to myself, marching towards home.

...

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THE END

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Dear Reviewers,

This is the final chapter of this story, and then I will be posting an epilogue Wednesday night prior to the Infinity War release. Thank you for joining me on this journey... ending this story is so bittersweet. However I am working on the chronological version, which so far is greatly improved and rewritten and entire bonus scenes added not in this one, so if you are as sad as me about finishing it - please feel free to check it out under the same title on Archive of Our Own. I will also be re-posting the chronological version on this website starting this weekend, I believe!

I still can't believe we've reached the end, thank you so much for joining me. Stay tuned for two more days here, for today's last chapter, and then tomorrow's lil' epilogue. As always, please let me know what you think :)

Love to all, forever and always,

Pip

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 **...and of course to my best beta... my besta... Queen of Crystallopia**... this story just wouldn't be here without you. Words aren't enough! Thank you 3

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 **We're on Ao3 now!**

Your beta and I are both on "Archive of Our Own" now, you can find her under Crystallopianqueen and me under Pippin_Strange

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 **REVIEW REPLIES**

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 **COMING SOON...**

One last epilogue before the Infinity War premiere on Friday. Will post Wednesday for those of you seeing it on Thursday ;)

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Instagram handles!

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For fanfiction and NERD STUFF: pippin_strange

For life, drawings, and more: myapapaya_adventures

For my epic Dungeons & Dragons group: thegildedlillyparty

For my weird obsessions: myas_haunted_things

Your AMAZING beta, authoress and incredible artist: mscrystalbeard

Fantastic Marvel/Peter Parker and Animation art: shoyzz

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	40. EPILOGUE

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SCHOOL BUS

 _Some Time Later_

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Back to the ordinary.

It's difficult to comprehend how the little things - getting a sandwich, coffee, going to school - taking a bus - it's blissful, even, by comparison. Mundane by the absence of everything else I know to be out there - like the Avengers and their likely wars of cataclysmic proportion.

A spider crawling up the wall seems insignificant when you place it on a scale meant for giants.

But that doesn't mean I can't do what I can, in the capacity that I have. And maybe something will call me to something bigger. Where - I don't know. I couldn't begin to guess. I'm young, and I get it. But I'll be here when _it,_ whatever it may be, calls me.

Light streams through the bus window; I'm too distracted to notice whether it's sunlight or a portal opening to another dimension. It could be anything. But the point being that light can't exist without darkness; but maybe I can help hold it back. In a small way.

It's there on the bus - I feel a pull.

My senses are on edge. It's like hearing the strain of a song that you _know_ the lyrics to but can't put a finger on it. That extra sensory perception that I've slowly developed over time - more than just quick reflexes. It's a whisper, that Spider-sense, raising the hairs on my arm as if there's a sudden chill. I look down at my arm in surprise.

 _What is that?_

There's the call - a tug to sharply look over my right shoulder through the bus window to identify the sudden darkness in my peripheral vision. Something unchecked, and cosmically out of place in the New York skyline.

I turn my face towards the light. I'll always turn to the light.

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THE END

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